


Finding Christmas

by pukajen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, First Time, M/M, Ugly Holiday Sweaters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-04 21:13:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 33,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5348705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pukajen/pseuds/pukajen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why they had to leave the flat, is beyond Sherlock. It’s not as if John doesn’t shop online. As is evident by his browsing history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Failure to Shop

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Fic-mas challenge going on over on tumblr.
> 
> This isn't beta'ed. No time really posting one fic a day. It will be beta'ed after the holiday madness dies down.

Sherlock hates shopping. 

Why they had to leave the flat, is beyond him. It’s not as if John doesn’t shop online. (As is evident by his browsing history. Sherlock is fairly certain that he will be getting an urban beekeeping starter kit, a pair of gloves, and some very nice tea for Christmas.)

John is still a bit sore if he moves too quickly (shot in his shoulder, again, courtesy of one of the many angry people in Mary’s past. At least Mary took the bullet that would have killed John. All is not forgiven, but the level of anger both feel towards her has been tempered. Dying can do that. Sometimes.) He’ll ache for hours.

So, when John said that they were going out to get Christmas present shopping over with, Sherlock had put on his coat without a word. 

He has no idea what he's going to get John and hopes to get some ideas from this trip. It needs to be something special, something that delineates this Christmas from all others. They are inching their way to a new (old, been there since the start, but the Sherlock had buggered it up the first night and hadn't known how to fix it afterwards) phase of their relationship.

Plus, it’s fun to be out with John (well, not fun, it’s actually quite awful, people are all around and crowding in), to spend time together, to buy gifts together for their friends (together, even if they’re not together, not yet, but Sherlock knows that it’s coming. All the incidental touches that are lasting longer, all the lingering looks, all the times John doesn’t back down when Sherlock invades his personal space), gifts that will say on them ‘From John and Sherlock’ and Sherlock will make sure that the recipients know that they both were involved in the purchasing. 

Beside him, John is grimly staring at a selection of scarves he was contemplating for Mrs. Hudson. Whatever initial joy he had with this trip, it's faded fast under the harsh reality of Harrods' grating holiday music and stuffy (both physically and mentally) atmosphere. 

The tension is causing John to hunch his shoulders. Twenty more minutes, and his bad (mostly recovered, but now extra bad) shoulder will seize up. 

There has to be a better (less aggravating) way to go about choosing presents together for their friends and family. Even one of those hideous Christmas markets might be better. 

“Sir,” says an overly-perky sales woman (single, hates her job, lives with a bunch of uni students because she can't afford to live in a flat and still stay close to London) steps in front of him. “Would you like to—”

“No, I most assuredly wouldn't. Especially, not from someone who was fired from their last job for poor cleanliness standards.”

The woman fake smile freezes in place and her eyes turn hard.

“Listen, mate—”

“By no definition of the word am I any sort of 'mate' to you. In fact—”

“Excuse me,” John smoothly cuts in. “I think we'll just be leaving now.”

The sales woman glares at them until they turn the corner and head towards the exit.

“She also has an untreated urinary tract infection,” Sherlock mutters.

“I really don't want to know how you know that,” John says as they make their way into the blessedly cool street. 

“It's easy to spot because of—”

“Ah! No, don't tell me!”

“Fine,” Sherlock huffs, doing up the buttons on his coat. 

“Well,” John says, resignation heavy in the single word, “that was a waste of time.” 

“We can do better than Harrods,” Sherlock says dismissively. 

In step, they jog across Brompton Road and head towards Hyde Park. The drizzle from early that morning having given way to overcast skies and temperatures holding steady at nine degrees. 

“I just don't want to leave it to the last minute this year,” John tells him, “and be stressed out ploughing through stores with hundreds of other stressed out last minute shoppers.”

Sherlock shuddered at the very idea. 

“There are dozens of Christmas markets throughout London. The ones at the Barbican or Tate Modern should have something for Molly and Mrs. Hudson.”

John eyes him for a moment. “That's a really good idea. I haven't been to a Christmas market in years.”

“Eleven years, to be precise,” Sherlock says and is gratified to see John's grin. “Girlfriend dragged you along while on leave.”

“Eleven years, yes. Girlfriend, no.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes and tries to figure out where he'd gone wrong, but he just can't see any other logical reason. John's grin grows to a knowing smile, one that contains a world of smug secrets and Sherlock wants to shake him to get the answers. (No, he wanted to kiss that smile, absorb John's secrets through osmosis. And tongue.)

“Can't suss it out?” John asks, laughter coating the edges of his words.

“I will. I always do.” But, he can't. There is no other scenario that makes sense. Harry is (was) hardly the Christmas market type (or any market type). And John wouldn't have gone alone; it just wouldn't have occurred to him. 

As they enter Hyde Park, Sherlock is vibrating with not knowing. 

“You went because there was a vendor there selling something specific that you wanted to buy your girlfriend for Christmas.”

John's laughter rings out and for all that it's because Sherlock is wrong, Sherlock cherishes the sound. It's been far too long since he's heard John laugh so freely. 

“Making shit up to try and see if it fits?”

Sherlock not answering is answer enough and John continues to chuckle. The tension that was coming off him in waves inside Harrods has completely dissipated. 

They pass the Serpentine with Sherlock no closer to figuring out why John would have gone to a Christmas market. 

“Want a hint?” John asks. 

“No!” Seconds later, “Yes.”

“You were right about there being a specific vendor I was going to the market for.”

“But it wasn't for a present?”

“No,” John answers. 

At a complete loss, Sherlock ponders the possibility that John was working at the market. It would have been some sort of favour to a friend while he was home on leave and not a regular occurrence. 

But, no. No one in their right mind would leave John in charge of any sort of retail store where he would have to deal with the public's idiocy all day long. (Then again, most people only see John as an affable doctor who also happened to have been a soldier. Most people are oblivious morons.)

“Fine!” Sherlock concedes with little grace as they near the edge of the park. “Tell me.”

“The bloke I was seeing had a stall where he sold all sorts of leather goods.”

John rattle off a list of the goods, but Sherlock doesn't hear. 

He's stopped walking, might have stopped breathing. 'A bloke I was seeing'. John's words more than implied that he was romantically (sexually) involved with a man. 

The idea that 'not gay' doesn't exactly mean straight has been growing in the back of Sherlock's mind for some time. (Exponentially so after John's wedding, but by then it didn't matter any more.) 

However, while Sherlock is fairly sure what is building between them is going to be (very, extremely, locked away for days) sexual, he thought that it would be John's first time in a committed romantic relationship with a man. (That John had sexually been with a man (men?) in the Army is something that Sherlock concluded after meeting Major Sholto. Though, Sherlock is unsure if he and John ever consummated the obvious attraction they shared.) 

“Hey! Sherlock!” John calls, standing directly in front of him. “Good, you're back.”

“I didn't go anywhere.”

“Yeah, you did, but that's okay.” John is looking at him searchingly. “Everything alright?”

“'Bloke'? You were seeing a man?”

John looks at Sherlock for a long time, his expression unreadable. If John had a Mind Palace, Sherlock is sure that John would be redecorating at this moment. Between them, they were quickly rebuilding the reality they shared. It might be an idea to compare notes to see what the final structure is supposed to look like. (Maybe discuss in detail as to what exactly the foundation is made up of.)

“Oh, yes. Jacques.” A little smile flits across John's lips. “Haven't thought about him in years. Wasn't too fond of the Army. Didn't last long.”

Sherlock simultaneously hates and adores the fact of Jacques. 

Questions, theories, wild fantasies flood Sherlock's mind. So many of them that they (thankfully) prevent him from speaking. 

This new facet of John opens up so many other avenues that Sherlock didn't even know were possibilities. 

“Fancy getting some lunch?” John asks. “What am I saying, we're getting lunch. You skipped breakfast and even if you don't want lunch you can watch me eat mine.”

“Fine.” Sherlock is still rooted to the spot. A man. John had dated a man. All of Sherlock's subtle plans to make sure they are together before Christmas change and reorder. It will be less persuading and more wooing, he thinks. 

He wonders if anyone has ever perused John in that manner and thinks it's going to be interesting to find out. There are shelves of plans that need to be scrapped, archival units that need to be opened and studied. 

“Coming?” John asks, eyebrow quirked. 

“Yes.”

“Shifting some stuff in the Mind Palace?” John asks, bumping his right shoulder into Sherlock's left bicep. 

“Some minor adjustments.”

“Good,” John says with a firm nod. “That's good.”

And with that, they start walking again, all the while Sherlock is trying to figure out how soon will be too soon.


	2. Chocolate Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over the next forty-eight hours and endless paperwork and John will have closed an awful chapter of his life by Friday night and will (hopefully) be starting a new, happier one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All these stories will be linked.

“Just let me out by the zoo,” John tells the driver, reaching up to massage the ever-present ache in his left shoulder. 

“Bit away from Baker Street,” the woman says even as she starts to edge her way Regent's Park Road to make the right onto Princess. 

John knows, he just doesn't care. Traffic is crawling along and he wants nothing more than to be moving. In years passed, John would never have taken a taxi this far, but he's now a very wealthy man. (Turns out whatever else Mary had been, well-paid topped the list.)

Most of the money he's given away to various charities (fucking blood money he wants nothing to do with. Even if both his and Sherlock's blood had mingle with countless other victims). However, he's kept enough so that he'll never has to worry about leaving London until he's ready. 

The house he shared with Mary is finally sold, which has added to the sum in John's bank account. Though, in two days that and then some will be gone. Used to buy a lovely manor house in Sussex

His gift to Sherlock this Christmas is the promise of together, always. (Sherlock's name will be added to the documents on December 28th.)

Until they are ready to leave London (and their life) behind, the place will be let out to holiday goers for a fee. (Hefty in John's opinion, but the company he's hired to deal with such matters assures him it's actually slightly below market value.)

Over the next forty-eight hours and endless paperwork and John will have closed an awful chapter of his life by Friday night and will (hopefully) be starting a new, happier one, come Saturday. (Not that he's telling Sherlock about Lavender Hills – awful name – just yet. It's to be a Christmas present, one he shouldn't be able to guess.)

Getting enough money out to pay the fare, John manages to leave with only a terse 'thanks'. He jars his bad shoulder as he shuts the door and curses foully; much to the amusement of an elderly woman walking a small dog. (The dog just glares at John.)

It's full dark, but clouds reflecting back the lights of the city. Plus, John knows the paths better than most. The miles he's walked here are too many to count. (The times he's hopped the gate to prowl through the park is best not mentioned either.)

He sets out a quick pace, leaving behind the causal stroller and lovers who stick mainly to the outer paths. 

He's in no mood for company of any kind. 

Emotions muddle and roil through him, never settling. He should be sad Mary is dead, but he's truly not. He hated her so much at the end. (Really, before the end. He hated her from the moment he found out she shot Sherlock.)

Yet, if she had been just what she proclaimed – a nurse who'd met, helped John through the worst time of his life, and fallen in love with him – then John would either have stayed with her, held by some mix of gratitude and guilt, and been miserable or he would have left her and been guilty and miserable for breaking her heart. 

Now, he's mainly angry at her and he doesn't really care that he broke her heart as she broke his first. (Long before they ever met, she was instrumental in his destruction.) That she took a bullet for him (after one had already passed through his body) doesn't lessen his anger. It was her fault he was bloody well shot (again) in the first place.

By the time John crosses the bridge over the Boating Lake by RUL, his shoulder is throbbing dully, and his mood hasn't really improved. He doesn't want to go home like this; inflict his temper on Sherlock. 

Not when they had such a lovely evening the night before. 

At this time of night, the benches are free and John only has to choose. He picks one under a large tree, leaves long gone, and looks across as the ghostly outline of a naked willow. 

It's cold, but not freezing and the clouds look as if they're starting to break up. In his right pocket, John's phone is suspiciously silent, as it has been for most of the afternoon. While he hadn't told Sherlock what he was doing today, John had looked up directions to the bank where he was to meet his solicitor on his laptop. That, along with the fact that the house has been on the market priced to sell for the last two months should be clues enough for the Great Sherlock Holmes. 

John snorts; even in his thoughts, Sherlock is larger than life. 

Sherlock fills up John in ways that no one and nothing ever has. Since John has come back home for good (a full six weeks later than anticipated thanks to the fucking hole in his shoulder) the walls between them have been crumbling. 

If John is honest with himself (and these days, he forces himself to be. There have been too many lies; enough for a lifetime) the wall between them were never that strong. It grew and fell as circumstances arose (Moriarty and Mary being the ones who put the most bricks in the wall), but he and Sherlock have always been unusually close and since Sherlock was shot, they've become even closer. (Tending to someone who is that ill tends to obliterate many barriers.) 

As does becoming mired in an operation to take down an internationally wanted hit(wo)man and those who still answer to her. (Or, rather, those who thought they were answering to Moriarty.)

Sherlock had been brilliant in the end, but then again, he always loved a grand finale. 

A small smile tugs at the corner of John's lips, and he lets it. 

“If you're no longer in bad mood, why are you sitting here in the dark and cold?” 

Somehow, John knew Sherlock would find him if he didn't make it back to the flat in an acceptable amount of time. (The tracker that John knows is still in his phone despite Sherlock's assurances that he removed it, probably helped.)

“Just thinking,” John says, glancing up at him.

“Surely, you must have been done with that endeavour ages ago,” Sherlock jokes, settling down next to John. 

“Fuck off,” John shoots back, but there's no bite in the words.

“I brought something to warm you up.” So saying, Sherlock's hands John takeaway cup from Speedy's.

“I don't think I want any coffee.”

“It's hot cocoa. We didn't have anything appropriate, so I just nipped down to Speedy's and borrowed a couple of cups and lids.”

“By 'nipped down', you mean broke in,” John says, accepting the warm cup. “And by 'borrowed' you mean 'stole'.”

“Mr. Chatterjee will thank me in the morning when he discovers that the fish in the faulty freezer have been moved to the fridge.”

“Either that or he'll call the cops.”

“Please, he'll know it's me straight away.”

“And if he does, he'll worry for the rest of the day what else you might have tampered with or changed.”

From the slightly feral smile on Sherlock's mouth, John thinks he might have to defuse Mr. Chatterjee before they're banned from Speedy's. 

Again.

“Git,” John says fondly, bringing the cup up to his lips. “Holy shit, Sherlock! What the bloody hell did you make this with?” John can feel the concoction burning its way down to his stomach where the artificial warmth of high-octane alcohol spreads throughout his body. 

“Mostly, whisky,” Sherlock says placidly, taking a sip from his own cup. 

It might make him a bad person, but John giggles with glee at the way Sherlock's eyes widen and he sputters and coughs.

“For future reference, just a shot of whisky would do.” Cautiously, John takes another small sip. 

“Noted,” Sherlock wheezes, glaring at his cup as if he wasn't the one who'd made the drink in the first place. As if its contents had betrayed him somehow. 

Unable to help himself, John laughs. Sherlock might make him mental, but John is never bored. And, more often than not, he's highly amused. 

In the dim light cast by homes on the other side of the hedgerow that separates Regent's Park from the Outer Circle, John can just make out Sherlock's lips quirking up in a smile, the lines around his eyes crinkle, then he too is laughing. They sit on the bench and laugh in a way John hasn't since right before Sherlock's (fake) death. It feels good, it feels right. No one on this earth can make him feel as alive, as grounded, as happy as Sherlock can. 

And then, John just knows. The time is now.

Cupping Sherlock's cheek with his right hand, John turns Sherlock so that they're facing each other.

Sherlock's laughter has stopped, but the joy lingers on his face. 

They look at each other in the glow of other people's lives, searching. John raises his eyebrows in inquiry as his thumb rhythmical caresses the sharp edge of Sherlock's left cheekbone. It takes a couple of moments, but John has learned to wait when it comes emotional questions with Sherlock, then Sherlock nods, lips parting slightly. 

It's all John needs. He's stretching up, tugging Sherlock down, and their lips meet ever so gently. Sherlock's are colder than his, but so incredibly soft, so plush. Even with just the small taste, John knows he could spend hours just kissing him. 

Sherlock's breath hitches, puffing over John's lips, and John opens his own mouth, deepening the kiss. 

Tentatively, John runs his tongue over Sherlock's bottom lip; testing how far Sherlock wants to go. From the low hum of encouragement, John figures it's as far as John wants to.

Changing the angle, John sucks on Sherlock's bottom lip. Using Sherlock's surprised gasp, John slides his tongue into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock tastes of chocolate and whisky and adventures and home. 

Heedless of his drink, John drops the cup, letting it splat where it may. Ignoring the throb of pain, John raises his left hand up to cradle Sherlock's face (precious and loved) as he explores Sherlock's mouth.

Distantly, John hears a muddle of voices, filled with the carefree excitement of the young. The racket gets closer, uproarious laughter explodes through the night. 

“No,” Sherlock groans as John pulls back. 

“Shhh,” John soothes, going back in for one last taste. “We're about to have company.”

“Don't care,” Sherlock says, nipping at John's bottom lip. 

John can't say that he cares all that much either, but now that the illusion of solitude has been shattered, he can feel exactly how long he's been sitting out in the cold. 

“Well, I do,” he says, placing on last kiss on that wonderful mouth. “My arse is numb and I think I might be doing something rather detrimental to my shoulder.”

Instantly concerned, Sherlock pulls back and stares at John's left side; as if he could see anything in the dark through layers of coat, jumper, shirt, and vest. (Layers because John feels the cold much more easily these days.)

(The coat he hates. It's one left over from Sherlock's two years away and John really needs to get a new one. His regular (favourite) coat, left over from his Army days, was destroyed by a bullet and a litre of his own blood.)

A group of nine teenagers pass them, giggling and shouting and making merry. 

“Let's go home,” Sherlock says, standing. 

“Yes. Home.” John stands and together they make their way back to Baker Street.


	3. Jekyll and Hyde

Even though it’s early days, the Christmas Market at Hyde Park is fairly crowded. However, unlike Harrods, John seems to be enjoying himself. Which, in turn, keeps Sherlock from being completely miserable. 

That and the knowing little smiles John keeps giving him. 

(Also, there are so many different motives for people to be here; far more interesting than those on the street or packed onto platforms waiting for a tube or grumpily jostling each other while trying to - and failing - to find that prefect gift.)

“I know you’re having a good time,” John says, popping a roasted chestnut in his mouth. “So you can stop pretending you’re not.”

“It’s so, so. so…”

“Happy?”

“I was going to say over-commercialised while oddly also a hodgepodge of home-crafts that should never have been allowed out of a church bazaar.”

“Yet, you’ve bought a scarf for Mrs. Hudson and a brolly for Mycroft here so it can't be all that bad.”

The scarf would be from both of them and is a lovely piece of silk that reminds Sherlock of the sky right before the sun sinks into the ocean off the southern tip of Playa Bonita in Costa Rica. The umbrella has flying cakes on it and would annoy Mycroft to no end. 

There's a surge in the crowd and John is parted from him. It's only for a few seconds, but the urge to grab John's hand and hold on is visceral.

Everything so new between, so tentative, yet oddly solid. They'd kissed a bit more last night, and then John had gone up to his room (much to Sherlock's immense disappointment), and not come down until nearly eight this morning. Sherlock is unsure if taking John's hand in a crowd is permitted or not. Would be welcomed or not and as much as he wants to hold on to John, he fears rejection. (Not of his person, his sentiment, but of his overture and would rather not find out for sure if the gesture would be accepted or not.)

“Busy,” John murmurs when they're back together. 

“This is one of the more popular Christmas Markets,” Sherlock says, eyes drawn to a stall selling urban honey. 

It's also one of the more irritatingly named ones. 

However, the market at the Barbican is only open Friday to Sunday, and the Tate Modern would have been a pain in the arse to get to at half five. (Also, Sherlock is fairly certain it'll be raining in another hour and for all that he protests, John's shoulder aches all the more in the wet, cold weather.)

He and John are parted yet again, but John seems to be looking at necklaces for Harry, so Sherlock makes his way over to the honey seller.

It turns out the woman is an entomologist who is studying colony collapse and she and Sherlock get into a very interesting discussion on the role of urban beekeeping in saving bees from annihilation. 

Long before Sherlock is ready to end their conversation, people push up, wanting to buy honey (which is the point of the stall, not academic discussions on practical and theoretical long-term studies to figure out what to do about the bees) with an apologetic smile, she gives Sherlock her business card with her personal email scrawled on the back. 

To Sherlock's horror, when he spots John, he's at a stall selling all manner of truly repugnant knitwear. 

“Try this one on,” John commands as Sherlock sidles up beside him, thrusting purple, green, yellow, and orange striped and spotted monstrosity at him. It jiggles. 

“Have you received a blow to the head?” Sherlock inquires, only half joking. “Because that is the only explanation as to why you could ever imagine I would try on something so, so, so...”

“What about this one?” John asks, holding a hat which looks suspiciously like a pink elephant complete with ears and trunk. 

Sherlock is horrified to realise that he's at a loss for words. All the idiocy around him must be contagious. 

“You. You. John!”

“Oh, your face,” John says, all but collapsing with laughter. “Fuck, that's priceless,” he gets out between gasps. “Even better than if you'd put the bloody hat on.”

By the hats, Sherlock spots a jumper that matches the first hat (the mind boggles!) and briefly contemplates suggesting that he'll try on the hat if John does the jumper. The only problem is, John probably would. Or, much worse, buy the atrocious thing. 

Needing to get John away from the hat selection before real damage can be done, Sherlock clears his throat, then coughs a little.

John shoots him an inquiring look.

“Not sure, bit of a tickle. There's a stand selling hot cider over there.” Sherlock points across the way. “Want one?”

“I'll come with you,” John says.

Together the cut across and buy cups of steaming cider. John liberally laces both of their drinks with whisky from a flask hidden in the inner pocket of his hated coat. (Sherlock really should get him a new, better one. Bespoke with pockets for notebook and pens. Maybe his gun.)

They wander some more, sipping their drinks, shoulder brushing companionably. John pointing out hats, though never finding one to match the first. 

There's a stall with what look to be handmade books and Sherlock is drawn to them. The style is similar to what he's seen in Venice and makes him long to go back there, this time with John in tow and ramble through the city trying to find the hidden doors and escape passages from the old brothels. 

John looks longingly at a couple of the books, stroking one here. Picking up a chocolate brown book with the outline of a willow tree on the cover, John tugs the hunter green elastic that holds it closed and flips through the pages.

Sherlock is taken with a larger book, sleek and black with the faintest shadow of a dal segno, when he opens the book, blank sheet music greets him. 

John is no longer beside him, but two stalls over looking at yet more necklaces that Harry will probably make snarky comments on and accept with poor grace. 

“My son and I make them,” says a man in his late fifties. (Widower for nearly twenty years, likes it that way, son is at university, but lives at home, helps out when he can but his studies take up a lot of his time.)

“You both do beautiful work,” Sherlock tells him honestly. 

Upon closer inspection, Sherlock can tell the master from the apprentice, but only just. He hopes that the young man will be able to convince his father that being an accountant is boring and making books is his dream.

“Looking for something special?” asks the man.

And suddenly, Sherlock knows what to get John. (Not The Gift, but one of the smaller ones, like the tea or bee kit John is getting him.)

“Yes, my—” Sherlock stops short; he has no idea what to call John. Not in this tenuous in-between of more than friends but less than lovers. And, even when they do become lovers (which can't be too soon as far as Sherlock is concerned), he's not sure what they'll be. This is a discussion he'll need to have with John very soon.

“For someone you love?” the man inquires diplomatically. 

“Yes. That.” Sherlock nods his head.

“Are they a writer or an artist?”

“Writer.” Sherlock thinks of all the old moleskines that he found left behind at Baker Street, filled with notes and stories of the life he and John used to live. (Are starting to live again.) “He's a writer.” 

“Does he prefer to be able to carry his notebook in a pocket or something bigger to use at home?”

“Pocket.”

“Then leather is the best thing. The paper covers, while sturdy enough for every day use at home, don't hold up as well getting carted around and put in and out of pockets.”

“He likes his to have a string so he can get to where he left off right away.”

“I have some like that right here,” the man says indicating a section a few feet along; the one John had been looking at earlier amongst the selection.

The books are lovely, each with a unique hand-embossed design on the cover. Some are held closed by a strip of leather wrapping around the book horizontally, others by elastic running vertically, still others by flaps with magnets. After testing several different ones, Sherlock settles the one with a willow tree that John picked up earlier and a dark blue (nearly the shade of John's eyes when he's very tired), the elastic that holds the book closed is cleverly camouflage in the branches and one with a black quill dripping red blood into a pool that seems to spill off the bottom right corner that closes via magnets. 

As he's paying, his mobile chimes.

For the first time in maybe ever, Sherlock desperately hopes it's not a case and he dawdles with sorting out the notes and coins, tucking the wrapped books into the pocket of his Belstaf. 

The text alert chimes again and Sherlock pulls out his mobile. When it's John's name on the screen, Sherlock is incredibly relieved. 

'where r u???'

Sherlock looks at the stall to the right of the bookmaker: another person foisting off hideous knit hats and jumpers, the one after the silversmith where he last saw John looking at necklaces, three up is a coppersmith. 

'Looking at something for Mummy.  
-SH'

'where?'

'A stall with copper jewellery.  
-SH' 

'i don't see that one at all.'

'Where are you?  
-SH'

' I'll find you.  
-SH'

'chocolate land'

Sherlock sincerely hopes it's not some new section to explore with chocolate fondant houses and chocolate bar footpaths and trees with chocolate biscuits and whatever else makes up a Chocolate Land. (Winter Wonderland contains all manner of things that have nothing to do with winter. And very few that are all that wonderful.)

Luckily, Chocolate Land turns out to be a rather large, very popular stall.

It takes him a moment, but Sherlock manages to find John lingering on the fringe of people pressing up to get all sorts of free samples. A second later, John turns and spots Sherlock; his faces breaks into a happy smile. 

“You found me,” John says face creased with tender amusement when Sherlock is in front of him. They are now in the no man's land between the chocolate stall and one that sells candles, giving them an air of isolation.

“I always do,” Sherlock says in all seriousness wanting take John into his arms and never let go.

“You always do,” John agrees, equally solemn. 

Then, John rises up on tiptoes and right there in the middle of Winter Wonderland, kisses Sherlock. It's not a tentative kiss, not one from someone in a new relationship finding their way. It's a kiss of years and knowledge and commitment and passion. 

Sherlock falls into the kiss with abandon. 

Their mouths open simultaneously; their tongues meet and swirl together, tasting, feeling, enjoying. 

John must have tried some samples for he tastes of chocolate and faintly of cider and whisky and everything that Sherlock ever wanted. 

Sherlock's hands go to John's waist, pulling John to him. Their chests bump together and John lets out a little 'oof' and giggle before taking Sherlock's mouth again. John mimics Sherlock move, only this time it's their hips that align. 

There are far too many layers of clothing between them and Sherlock resents ever one. 

John brings his right hand up to toy with the hair at the nape of Sherlock's neck causing a shudder to course through his body. Never before has he reacted quite so strongly. But then again, John is the exception to just about every rule Sherlock's ever had concerning other people. 

“Take it home, please,” asks a gruff voice. “There are kids about and you blokes are getting a might involved for a public space.”

Sherlock would have ignored the woman, but John pulls back grinning sheepishly.

“Sorry about that,” he says to her.

“No harm done,” the woman (late thirties, not a natural blond – or purple – works in a cafe – no, owns a cafe – and spends hours a day teaching piano for free to those who can't afford it) says with a smile. “He's rather fit and I wouldn't have been able to stop myself either.”

Her eyes take in both of them in a casually friendly way and Sherlock isn't certain which one of them is supposed to be the 'fit' one. 

Without another word, she saunters off into the crowd heading for a stall selling the most interesting bespoke weapons. 

“I want to get some of the hot chocolate,” John tells Sherlock, pushing his way through the crowd in the direction of the counter. “I don't know what they put in it, but it was delicious.”

“I know.”

John's head whips around and he stares at Sherlock in shock for a second, the expression soon morphs into one of dark promise. 

“Tasty,” John says, eyes locking on Sherlock's mouth for a several heart beats before he turns back towards the woman taking orders. 

Causally, John reaches down and links their fingers together. Their hands are gloved and Sherlock curses their existence even as he revels in the fact that they are holding hands. 

Joy bubbles up in him, giddy and amazing, and Sherlock can't find it in himself to be ashamed of it.

He must have made some sound, maybe he squeezed John's hand, because John is once again looking at him. This time John's smile reflects all that Sherlock is feeling and Sherlock is glad he didn't try and school his features.

“Beautiful,” John says, swooping up for a quick kiss. “So beautiful,” he says again, this time the words flow softly over Sherlock's lips. 

“You going to order or snog?” asks the woman from behind the counter.

“Snog,” Sherlock answers.

“Order,” John overrules, turning to face the woman with a charming grin. “We would like a medium bag of the Winter Wonderland Special.”

John has to let go of Sherlock's hand to pay, but as soon as the deal is done, John tangles their fingers back together again. A light rain has started and by mutual decision, they head for home debating whether to stop and eat (John's choice as he doesn't want to do the washing up) or get takeaway (Sherlock's as he wants John to himself). 

It's a debate they've had countless times before (often switching roles depending on whose turn it was to do the washing up) and shouldn't be anything special. Except it is, because now they're having the debate while holding hands as they jog across Oxford Street to the blare of an irritated taxi driver.

When Sherlock suggests that they leave the washing up to Mrs. Hudson, John calls him a lazy git even as he strokes his thumb over the palm of Sherlock's hand. (Sherlock really hates their gloves.)

A calm happiness (a kind that he never knew existed) settles Sherlock as he lobbies to eat at home and he knows that he'll never be without John again. Never be without this feeling of love and being loved and belonging.


	4. What to say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: Correct chapter posted. 
> 
> Ratings Change!!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ewebie for answering all my questions, then going above and beyond.
> 
> Please note the ratings change. Earning the explicit rating from here on out.

After he's ruined two of the lovely hand-painted cards he bought at the market the night before, John takes to scribbling what he wants to say in his notebook. It's hard to put into words what he and Sherlock now are to each other. (Also hard to keep out the vaguely smug chagrin he feels at how well they've been making the transition so far from leaking through.)

 

Ten minutes (and two pages of rubbish), John makes himself a cup of tea. Half an hour later, and less than two dozen attempts, he pours himself a glass of whisky and lights the fire.

 

It's not that he doesn't know what to say, it's that putting it down in black and white (well, blue and sort of cream), takes away from the enormity of what they are to each other. (Have always been.)

 

Plus, despite wanting their friends to know about their change in status, John has come to the conclusion that putting it in a holiday card is probably not the way to do.

 

There are a couple dozen cards littered around the sitting room; some from friends, many from clients, one form Sherlock's parents.

 

Quite a few have those form letters of 'this is my year in review and wasn't it grand!'. Which contain mostly lies. Not that John doubts the good stuff happened, but no one ever shares the bad stuff.

 

And, his year has a lot of bad: wife dead in a sting operation, who had happened to be an internationally wanted assassin who'd worked for Moriarty and taken over the running of his criminal network after his death. Also, turns out there wasn't ever a baby. Oh, and by the way, I was shot. Yes, again. No, it wasn't Sherlock's doing. Though speaking of Sherlock, I've moved back into Baker Street and he and I are now more than just flatmates and friends. Very soon, I hope to be fucking him into the mattress on a regular basis, and finding out for myself if his mouth does the same thing during orgasm as it does when he fits together a particularly snarled case.

 

Yup, that's not on at all.

 

From below, the front door slams and John can hear Sherlock running up the stairs.

 

“You were right, John!”

 

“Wait!” John says, tossing his notebook and pen on the coffee table, “I need to get my mobile out to record that please.”

 

“Bugger off,” Sherlock says as he hangs up his coat and scarf. “Pablo Gutierrez was suffering from undiagnosed amaurosis fugax. He never would have noticed Gillian Knox sneaking up next to him.”

 

“So she did shove him in front of the lorry?”

 

“Undoubtedly.” Sherlock flings himself down onto the couch next to John, sitting much closer than he would have a week ago. “She knew that the cameras were broken on the building across the way as there was a pillow fight flash mob the day before and the cameras recorded none of it.”

 

“A pillow fight flash mob?” John tries out each of the words individually, slowly, none of them really making sense.

 

“Yes. Everyone was dressed in pyjamas.”

 

“Okay.” Best not to ask too many more questions on that.

 

“And, due to the fact that the only eyewitness to the push was a homeless women that no one believed, Knox nearly got away with murdering a man and collecting a tidy fortune.”

 

“I thought she and her mum didn't get on.”

 

“They don't, but Knox was the next of kin and her mother has an bad heart.” Sherlock shifts closer to John as he speaks

 

“Her mother could have left the company to someone else.”

 

“She could have, but as of yet, she hasn't written a will, so it would have gone to Knox by default.” Sherlock grins over at John and casually drops his right hand on John's left thigh (in a move that has no casual at all). “Now, her mother is contacting a solicitor to make a will and Knox will be a guest of Her Majesty for quite a while.”

 

“Well done you,” John says, leaning over and placing a quick kiss Sherlock's cheek. “And, well done me for pointing you in the right direction to look for a reason Gutierrez didn't see her.”

 

Sherlock grimaces at John's pun, but John likes it and thinks he might use it in his blog post.

 

“Would have managed anyway,” Sherlock says imperiously. When John goes to move away, Sherlock clamps his hand tighter, holding John in place. “Though it went much faster because of your help.”

 

“Ta.” John knows it's the best he'll get and he doesn't really mind. It's just Sherlock; he shows his appreciation and need for John in dozens of other ways.

 

“Why are you trying to write Christmas cards?” Sherlock asks, picking up one of John's rejected from the coffee table.

 

“It seemed like the thing to do.”

 

“It's never been the thing to do in the past.”

 

It was, one year, but that was Mary and not him, and John doesn't want to bring her up.

 

“Yeah, but things are different now,” John says instead. “I want people to know that.”

 

“That you've moved back home and we're together now?”

 

Nodding, John thinks that he and Sherlock really need to talk about what they're going to call each other in the future. Together is fine, but it's not really a term people use when introducing their...

 

However, most of the other terms don't really fit them either.

 

“Pretty much,” John answers after a moment. Also, he really likes the notion of them signing the cards together. 'John and Sherlock' 'Sherlock and John', leaving no doubt in anyone's mind what they are to each other. (Even if they don't have a designation yet.)

 

“And sending our friends and acquaintances a Christmas card informing them that you now know what my mouth tastes like is how you're going to go about it?”

 

“I wasn't going to put it quite like that,” John says, bumping his shoulder into Sherlock's arm, :but yeah.”

 

“Maybe you should try, 'We hope you have had a nice year. Ours involved getting shot at (John actually got shot), caught an assassin, made rather a lot of money. Oh, and, by the way, we happen to be snogging on a regular basis now. Best wishes for the New Year. Sincerely, John and Sherlock.'?”

 

John snickers; he really shouldn't, it's not all that funny. But, god, the way Sherlock reeled off their life for the passed year as a lark that turned out fine (better than fine) makes him laugh.

 

“Best leave out the part about an assassin,” John says, loving the way Sherlock's eyes dance with mirth. “Official Secrets Act and all that.”

 

“How about 'Sherlock and I hope that in the future you will all remember to knock before coming into the flat as we plan on having rather a lot of sex'.”

 

Sherlock's hand inches up on John's thigh and every part of John is now focused on Sherlock; hand, mouth, eyes, words.

 

“Oh, are we?” John inquires. He certainly is planing on a lot of sex, but it's nice to know that Sherlock's been thinking along the same lines. From the flush rising up from under Sherlock's collar, John is pretty sure that Sherlock has been thinking about what they're inevitably going to do together. (At least as much as John himself has.)

 

“Yes, I believe we will be.” Sherlock's voice is a deep rumble that makes John's gut clench with sudden, fierce desire.

 

“Maybe we should get on that then,” John says, lunging toward Sherlock.

 

They meet in the middle, mouths crashing together, open, tongues seeking. Intense desire that was nowhere a moment before is now abruptly crackling between them. The hand on John's thigh kneads and strokes and move higher.

 

For the last couple of days, their kisses have been loving and passionate, but they've always held back from crossing that final line; now it's as if a dam has burst and there's no holding back the flood of desire.

 

They touch and stroke and taste, coming back time again. Mouths parting on soft moans to explore. The feel of Sherlock's pulse beating frantically under his tongue might be one of John's new favourite things ever.

 

Sherlock isn't idle, his hand traces the inseam of John's jeans, his mouth doing wicked things to John's right ear, both of which have John's cock filling and thickening with desire.

 

Twisting his body to get a better angle in which to nibble on Sherlock's long throat, sends a twinge of warning from John's bad shoulder. Not wanting to have to stop (fuck even the notion of stopping Not unless John drops dead is he he's not stopping, and eve then...) for anything, John surges up. Sherlock's moan of protest echoes around the room, his hands scrabbling to pull John back to him.

 

“Wh—“

 

But John straddles Sherlock's lap and shuts off whatever he'd been about to ask. Automatically, Sherlock's hand grip John's hips.

 

“Alright?” John asks, running his fingers through Sherlock's hair. (John will probably never tell Sherlock that the fortune he spends on hair products is worth the expense.)

 

“Brilliant,” Sherlock breaths, arching into John's caress like a happy cat.

 

Settling more firmly, John takes Sherlock's mouth again; exploring, testing, finding out what best makes Sherlock shudder with pleasure. A nip at his bottom lip causes a small hitch in breathing, a gentle tug of the hair at the nape of his neck, a soft moan. There are so many other areas to explore and John wants to learn every one of them.

 

But, first, he needs to feel Sherlock's lips against his again.

 

Very deliberately, John thrusts his tongue in and out of Sherlock's mouth; a silent promise of future actions. At his hips, Sherlock's hands clutch, the yank John closer.

 

The movement places John right over Sherlock's cock which is straining to burst through seams of his trousers. Or, at least, that's what it feels like to John.

 

Breaking the kiss, John looks down the length of Sherlock's heaving chest to where he can clearly see the outline of Sherlock's cock.

 

It's been too long (years and years too long) and John knows that neither of them are going to be able to last.

 

“Fast this time, okay?” John asks, breath already coming in pants.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, reaching for the button of John's jeans.

 

“Up!” John urges. Standing, he pulls Sherlock to his feet.

 

“The couch is fine,” Sherlock argues, trying to pull John back into his arms.

 

“Strip!” John barks.

 

So saying, John tugs off his jumper and vest, tossing them aside unheeded, before he undoes the button and zipper of his jeans. In one sure movement, he pushes them and his pants down and off.

 

In front of him, Sherlock stands, suit jacket and shirt gone, mouth open, eyes wide, not breathing.

 

For a second, John thinks he might have misstepped, but then Sherlock drops to the floor with a crack that will mean bruised knees and buries his face in John's crotch inhaling deeply.

 

“Christ! Sherlock.” Then there are no more words as Sherlock's mouth is on his cock, sucking and licking and tasting and making the most fantastic noises John's ever heard. It's as if it were Sherlock receiving the pleasure rather than giving it.

 

The view is spectacular and John gently tangles his fingers in Sherlock's hair; not to direct, just to anchor himself to this amazing new reality that he finds himself in.

 

Sherlock shifts a bit and starts to rub himself (his erection clearly felt) against John's leg, moaning softly.

 

It's too much and not quite enough for what John needs.

 

“Up,” he orders again, pulling on Sherlock's hair for emphasis.

 

With a disgruntled sound, Sherlock slides his mouth off of John's cock.

 

“You can't tell me you weren't enjoying that,” Sherlock says as he stands unsteadily.

 

“Want to see you,” John says.

 

“You were looking at—Oh.” Sherlock breaks off mid sentence as what John wanted to see dawns.

 

“Yeah, 'oh',” John mutters, kissing Sherlock fiercely. He can taste himself on Sherlock's tongue and it drives him a little mad. The need for Sherlock is now greater than any other need that John has ever known.

 

Taking the initiative, John undoes the button and bloody hook (fucking poncy trousers) before carefully tugging the zipper down over Sherlock's straining erection. Together, they push everything down to Sherlock's feet where they fumble with shoes an socks before ridding Sherlock of all of his clothing, then collapsing back onto the couch.

 

This time there is nothing in the way and John makes sure they line up perfectly. Their breathy moans are indistinguishable as their cocks come into contact for the first time.

 

Sherlock is long and slender, much like the rest of him. And hard enough that his cock presses against his stomach, foreskin already retracted back to expose the shiny head.

 

Reaching out, John strokes Sherlock from tip to root, and back up. There's a glistening bead of precome that John swipes his thumb through. Holding Sherlock's eyes, John brings his thumb to his mouth and licks it clean.

 

“John,” Sherlock says, eyes wild, mouth swollen from kiss and being wrapped around John's cock, the need and lust are clearly evident and John hopes that Sherlock can see the same on his own face.

 

Straddling Sherlock's lap puts them at equal height, so all John needs to do is lean forward and take what he wants. And take he does.

 

Kissing Sherlock deeply, John wraps his hand around both of their cocks, greedily swallowing Sherlock's cry of pleasure. He strokes them quickly, rolling his hips in time with Sherlock's in counterpoint to his hand's movement.

 

Their mouths break apart, gasping for air, but John is loathed to go any further.

 

“Lick your hand,” John tells Sherlock, who instantly obeys, then lowering his hand to meet up with John's holding their cocks. (It didn't take genius to know what John meant.) Sherlock's movements are shaky, but he follows John's instruction nonetheless.

 

“So fucking gorgeous,” John grits out and watches as Sherlock's cock jerks in response. “Beautiful.” Another jerk and hitch in breathing. John makes a mental note of Sherlock's reaction, but can't find words to fill the spaces between gasps for oxygen.

 

“Please! Faster,” Sherlock begs, arching into their combined hands. “So close.”

 

John doesn't bother with speech, just tightens his hand and strokes faster. The feel of Sherlock's cock sliding under his, of their hands holding them both so close, is better than anything John has ever experienced before.

 

It won't be much longer for him; already he can feel how tight his balls are getting.

 

“John,” Sherlock cries out, back bowing, muscles clenching as he comes all over his own chest and their hands.

 

John wants to watch, to memorise every nuance, but he can't; his own orgasm is too close. Instead, he focuses on keeping his strokes as steady as possible until Sherlock falls back against the couch gasping for breath.

 

Not letting go of Sherlock's cock or untangling their fingers, John rapidly strokes himself. It takes less than a minute before he's coming too; his ejaculate joining that already striping Sherlock's chest, slicking their hands.

 

Wanting to stay as close as possible, John wraps his arms (not noticing where his sticky hand ends up) around Sherlock and lets his forehead drop to Sherlock's right shoulder. Sherlock's hands trail up and down John's sweaty back. (John thinks Sherlock might be mumbling each vertebra as he runs his fingers over it.)

 

“We're having sex now,” Sherlock says eventually.

 

“Well, not this second, but yeah.” Sitting up straighter, John searches Sherlock's face carefully and only finds bleary happiness.

 

“We will be having sex again shortly,” Sherlock promises. “Best send those cards out with just 'Please knock in the future.' on them.”

 

On a bark of laughter John kisses the mad man that has changed his life irrevocably (three times now) and John counts himself luck to have ever have met Sherlock.

 

If nothing else, John thinks, maybe he should send Mike a thank you card.


	5. Rattling of Past Chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here be angst

One of the good things about being in a place where temperatures all come in the minus this time of year, is that nearly everyone has some sort of thing covering their face. The horrid green and red tube thing with matching hat (tuque) that Sherlock got from a shop in the McGill metro station keeps face hidden. 

It scratches and is made from revolting synthetic fibre, but all but his eyes are covered. (Not that it matters right now, but in a couple of hours it might mean his life.) 

Every window seems to have over the top winter wonderland displays, all with moving parts and people crowding in front of them. Despite the fact that it's nearly half-ten on Christmas Eve and they should be in their homes.

Sherlock has never enjoyed Christmas – too many people, too many expectations, too many lies – but his last one wasn't so awful. In fact, it was mostly enjoyable. (Well, the Christmas two years ago. Last year, he'd been in a safe house/hospital recovering from a stab wound that had managed to nick his right kidney and was blessedly unconscious so he doesn't count that one.)

Once he'd awakened, he'd passed the time by hacking into people's email accounts; it was something he did from time to time to keep the boredom at bay. And there was so much bloody boredom. So much time wasted (away from London, from John) waiting for people to do their thing (process data, move illegal arms, knock off rival leader, fix elections) before Sherlock could act. 

In his weeks away from London, Sherlock hadn't hacked into John's accounts. Which was odd, as he did it routinely when they'd lived together. (No, not odd, it would have hurt too much to read the clues to John's life, a life that now didn't include Sherlock.)

However, three days awake and weaned to the bare of painkillers, Sherlock had hacked John's email. Only to discover a lot of spam and dozens of unanswered emails. Going deeper (remotely exploring both John's harddrive and mobile) led to the troubling information that John was hardly leaving Baker Street and was subsisting on beer, whisky, beans, and the occasional curry. 

Only Mycroft arriving had stopped Sherlock from leaving the hospital bed and heading right back to London. (Well, more Mycroft's quietly delivered 'You'll kill him and all of this will have been for nothing. He'll be dead and you'll still have to track down the rest of Moriarty's network.')

His brother is a dick. (John's word, used with relish, but it also sends a shard of pain shooting through Sherlock.)

Pushing aside a man taking a picture of his smiling family: wife (thinking about getting a divorce) and children (one sells his ADHD medication to pay for a growing online gambling habit, the other is bisexual and hiding a relationship with her girlfriend because her father send her away if she steps out of line).

It's the kind of deduction he would have kept to himself when he and John roamed the streets of London, because, John being John, he would try and do something about the potential abuse. However, there's only so much you can do and there are much bigger problems than fucked up family dynamics to worry about. 

Sherlock ducks into one of the few opened restaurants. (Jean-Pierre, a full-time courier and part-time hitman for the Hells Angels will be stopping by in the next half hour for a beer and a poutine burger, but mostly flirt with Élise (who can not stand him). If Sherlock is very luck, Guillaume will drop in and the men will once again imprudently discuss business.)

Settling into a seat in the big bay window (he can see the whole restaurant reflected in it and watch for Jean-Pierre's arrival), Sherlock contemplates what to order. He hasn't eaten since the day before, and this is just a preliminary groundwork and he won't need his brain to function at top level. 

Also, not to order would be more conspicuous on a night when Sherlock needs to be anything but. 

Sometimes it feels as if he'll sped the rest of his life tracking down the threads of Moriarty's network. He's been at it for so long and Sherlock is just done. Maybe it's time to give up. Allow himself be captured and let what happens happen. (Not escape the way he did in Cebu. It had taken weeks for the infected cuts on the bottom of his feet and under his arms to heal fully.)

Élise comes by his table and Sherlock orders a poutine and coffee and wonders what John would make of the meal. John loves chips (Sherlock had done a study of John's favourite chippies and made sure that they ended up near one at the end of ever seven to nine cases) and there had always been cheese the fridge. The gravy John might baulk at, but the 'brown sauce' is often vegetarian. 

Sherlock wonders what John is doing tonight. Where he'll be spending Christmas. With whom. He's not sure if he hopes John is alone or if he has someone new in his life to spend Christmas with. 

There's an ache in Sherlock's chest and he thinks of all the things he never got to say to John. Maybe next year they'll be together for Christmas. They can spend it alone in the flat and Sherlock will make poutine for John (he'll have Mycroft fly in the cheese curds) and they can drink a little too much and sit in front of the fire and just be. 

Maybe next year, he'll be home and safe and will be able to sleep. Will be able to talk to John (real John, not the one he talks to sometime in his head) and tell him about how awful it was without him. How boring and hard and lonely. So very lonely. And John will pull him close and promise that he's home and safe now. (Maybe more than just hold him.)

Sherlock misses John so desperately at times that he'd taken to calling John's mobile just to hear his voice. (Mycroft found out. There were words. Bad, long words said at the top of their lungs. Words filled with guilt and anger and promises of retribution, but in the end, Sherlock had stopped calling because he was putting John in danger.)

Next year, Sherlock promises himself as he spots Jean-Pierre sauntering up the steps, pulling open the front door, next year, he'll be back in London, back in Baker Street, back with John.

But, for now, he needs to pay attention and figure out who in the Montreal police is leaking information to the Hells Angels. 

# # #

John tugs on his gloves and quietly closes the door behind him lest he wake up his new neighbours. 

The rain has stopped as quickly as it started; it won't be a white Christmas. 

Not that John really cares one way or the other; it's not as if he's doing anything for Christmas. 

Mrs. Hudson had asked several times for him to come and join her at Mrs. Turners, but John had firmly refused. The last was as he was moving out twenty days ago, and it had taken everything in him not to yell at her to just let him be. She didn't deserve his ire, but it was so hard to rein in his temper. 

Christmas has never been a big deal for him. As a child, there were gifts and a traditional dinner (assuming his parents stayed sober enough to not burn it) and watching whatever BCC was showing. As an adult, he'd always been working so it was just another day, albeit with decorations and occasionally better food.

The only Christmas that sticks out in his mind, is the one that he and Sherlock shared. And that hadn't been happy exactly, but it had been interesting and when all was said and done, it had felt as if he were the start of another new chapter of his life. One, once again, directly related to Sherlock Holmes. (One, John thought was going to be very interesting indeed if the lingering looks were anything to go on.)

Though it's a long walk from his new flat, John wants to go Regent's Park (not via 221 Baker Street, probably) and roam the paths he knows by heart. However, it's closed now and while it's not as if he hasn't hopped the fence in the past, but there are more police patrolling the park trying to catch the graffiti artists who have been leaving 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' all over the city. The most recent a blitz of them in Hyde Park starting just before John moved.

Even dead, the bastard was buggering up his life. 

Still he has nowhere else in mind so he heads that way hoping to find some distraction (a fight would be nice) along the way. Anything to stop his mind from circling around and around and around his life with Sherlock. 

Moments of quiet contentment float up of them in the flat together, sipping tea or walking through the streets of London with Sherlock deducing the other pedestrians or sitting in Spice Cellar gorging on their Sunday buffet. 

Moments of loud voices and laughter. Laughter that was sometimes (often) at the most inappropriate of times, though Sherlock was always laughing right along with him. John doesn't think he's laughed in nearly two years.

Moments of rows and violin music. Of lazy mornings in the flat and frantic nights running all over London. Little things that strike John at the oddest moments and make Sherlock's loss burn as brightly as it did those first months. 

John had to move, despite Mrs. Hudson's pleas, despite Mycroft's 'request' he stay to mind his brother's possessions until he and his parents (who couldn't even have been bothered to attend Sherlock's funeral) decided what to do with them. 

In the end, all John had taken with him was his Army mug and clothing. Everything else, even books and journals that were his, he'd left behind. It would have destroyed him to open a book and find Sherlock's scrawl telling him of the banal characters, the improbable plot, the grammatical mistakes the editor had missed. Or, to leaf through a journal and find Sherlock's writing, this time neat and precise, outlining his own ideas on studies that needed to be made. (Ones he could do at home.)

Instead of staying on Regent Street, John takes a right wandering into SOHO, striding down through alleys and passageways. No one is about at half-two in the morning save for those who live rough and none of them engage with John. 

He wonders if any of Sherlock's homeless network are still around and if he should have done more to make sure that they were alright when Sherlock died. 

There's a man shooting up in the doorway of a closed shop and John briefly wonders what it would feel like to have all those chemicals rushing through his veins. If they would shut off the memories that plague him night and day. He carries on, turning the idea over in his head. How hard could it be to get a hit? To figure out how to best administer it? And, if he buggers it up, the worst that will happen is that he'll be dead. 

No, the worst that will happen is that he won't be dead and everyone would know and try to help. 

Turning towards the river, John picks up the pace. Most of the buildings are decked out for Christmas, but this late (or maybe early) all of their lights have been shut off and it looks more like echoes of forgotten Christmases than the brand new one just upon them. 

Fast footsteps approach from behind him and John braces, eager for a fight. 

“Bit late to be out,” calls Greg from less than fiftee feet away.

John finds himself bracing in a whole different way.

“Could say the same for you,” John retorts, turning to face Greg.

“I'm a copper,” Greg says with false cheer. 

“Not on duty now.” He's in jeans and nice leather coat John knows he never wears to work for fear of destroying it. 

“Might not be working, but I'm always a cop.”

“What are you doing out here?” John asks. Too exhausted for any pretences. 

“Heard you were roaming the streets and thought you could use some company.”

“Mycroft,” John sighs. He can't even be angry at Greg as Mycroft has a way of manoeuvring most people into doing his bidding. Whether they want to or not.

“Well, yeah, he called me, but I was looking for a reason to leave the house.” Greg shoves his hands into his pocket. “Divorce papers came on Friday.”

“I didn't realise that you were getting a divorce.” Then again, John hasn't seen Greg in about three months and then, it's blur of football and an unknown amount of pints . 

“Been in the works for a while.” There's a hard look about Greg's eyes that tells John he's angry about the whole thing. “Takes a year.”

“Happy fucking Christmas,” John mutters and starts walking again. Greg falls into step beside him.

They walk to the river, rarely talking. Greg pulls a flask from his pocket and offers it to John as the cross Vauxhall Bridge and keep walking. They walk through a brief rain shower that hits twenty minutes after four, and keep going, at six the rain comes again and they stop for bad coffee from a corner store. They until the sun comes up, both tired and damp and sore and just done.

John wonders if he ever won't feel this way and hopes that by next Christmas he'll be able to go an hour without contemplating missed chances and what he could have done differently. 

He wonders if anything will ever stop the hurt of Sherlock being dead.


	6. Naughty & Nice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place directly after Day 4 here.

While John isn't light, his weight pressing Sherlock down into the couch is wonderfully reassuring. If it were up to him, Sherlock would have them stay like this for the rest of the evening. His muscles are languid, his fingers idly tracing up and down John's back, making note of the exact location of each vertebrae. 

But, all too soon reality starts settle in. Without all their exertions, Sherlock is starting to feel chilled. The fire has burnt down to embers and his skin is starting to prickle with drying sweat. (His, John's, mixed together and indistinguishable, even under a microscope. DNA testing would be need to sort out whose sweat is whose.)

Sweat isn't the only bodily fluid on him. 

The less thought about the drying come on his chest, stomach, and hand the better. 

Sherlock is rapidly loosing sensation below his thighs; which is actually fine with him as it means he no longer feels the prickle of drying sweat. 

Despite all of that, when John moans and shifts off his lap, Sherlock feels bereft. 

“Sorry, love,” John says, running a reassuring hand over Sherlock's chest. 

Blood beats a rapid tattoo in Sherlock's ears at John's casual use of a simple word which has such a complex meaning. 

“S'alright,” Sherlock manages to croak out. His throat feels tight and he clears it several times. Hopefully, John will attribute the issue to his shouts of pleasure from earlier and not a sudden overwhelming urge to cry at a simple word. One not even said with the gravitas of meaning behind it. 

John bends down and grabs a piece of clothing and does his best to clean up Sherlock's torso, then his own, and finally their hands. 

It says something about how addled his brain is that it takes nearly a minute for him to notice that John's using his pants. 

“You'll have to wash those!” Sherlock squawks. 

“Like you weren't going to chuck them in the wash basket when you stripped for bed?”

“You could have used your own.”

“Yours were handier.” John tosses them away. “Also, softer.”

“And people think I'm the impolite one.”

“You are,” John says with a grin, leaning in to kiss Sherlock. “I'm the nice one.”

“You're the naughty one,” Sherlock tells him when they break apart. “The one who smiles charmingly and looks unassuming and then gets away with murder.” 

“I'm the nice one when people compared me to you.”

“People are blind idiots.” A shiver shakes him making the 's' draw out longer than it should.

“Go hop in the shower and I'll order us some dinner,” John offers. 

“Fine,” Sherlock agrees, but really what he wants to do is haul John along with him to the shower and explore. (To never let go in case this is all some wonderful, horrible dream and he wakes up alone in his bed. Or, worse, one of the countless beds that he used while away. The times he woke up yearning for John are to painful to count.)

Maybe it's too soon for the intimacy of showering together. Maybe John needs time to think about what they've done together. While John has (apparently) had relationship with men in the past, there has to be a reason why he hesitated so long to start one with Sherlock. 

Maybe—

“Hey, Sherlock.” John's strong hands gently stroke his face. “What's going on in that big brain of ours?”

“Nothing.”

“Now, I know for a fact that that is never the case.”

“I want you to come with me,” Sherlock blurts out and instantly regrets it.

“Next time,” John promises. “I really want to get the food sorted.”

“It's fine,” Sherlock tells him, standing; though it really isn't, but he doesn't want to seem too clingy. John's clingy girlfriends were the ones with the shortest shelf-life.

“Sherlock, look at me.” Despite the fact that they're standing in the sitting room, naked, covered in sweat and come, cocks now flaccid and slightly comical, John still manages to sound and look commanding. As ever, Sherlock obeys. “I'm not having you on. I do like the idea on principal of showering with you. A lot. But, I'm starving and you take forever to get your hair just right, and if we go in there together, by the time we're done nowhere will be delivering anymore. Not that late on a Sunday night.”

As if to emphasise his point, John's stomach growls.

For a second, there's nothing, then they both burst out laughing. 

“Fine,” Sherlock says for a third time, only now he means it. “But, I'm going to hold you to your promise to join me next time.”

“Considering the amount of fantasies I've come up with while wanking in that shower, I won't need any persuading.”

If it were possible, Sherlock's cock would have become rock hard at the ideas John's words put in his head.

“You, you...”

“Wanked off in the shower while thinking of you?” John asks, raising his eyebrows, amusement and something darker, all over his face. 

“Yes. That.”

“Countless times.” John steps right into Sherlock's personal space, his eyes darting back and forth between Sherlock's lips and his eyes. “You telling me you never did?”

Sherlock nods his head, then shakes it; neither movement quite right.

“I did,” he says finally. “Often.”

“Some day, very soon,” John says, cradling Sherlock's hips in hands and pulling Sherlock in the last few inches, until their bodies are touching, “you and I are going to have a lovely conversation about fantasies and what we want to do with, for, and to the other.”

Mutely, Sherlock nods his head in agreement, the speech centre of his brain short circuited by the deluge of images and scenarios John's words have inspired.

Ducking down, Sherlock takes John's mouth in a fierce kiss to seal their promise. His tongue seeks and finds John's, his hands go to John's arse pulling him closer yet. Strong muscles flexing under his fingers as John rises to deepen the kiss.

It's anyone's guess what breaks them apart as he shivers and John's stomach growls nearly at the same time. 

With one last lingering look at John, Sherlock pads naked to the bathroom. As he shuts the door, he can hear John placing and order for yellow curry and vegetarian pad thai, and two chai teas.


	7. Danse des incroyables et merveilleuses

“John, dear,” calls Mrs. Hudson as John's left food hits the first step up to the flat.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Parcel came for Sherlock,” she says, opening her door further. “I wouldn't have brought it in, except that it says it's from his parents.”

“He didn't get it?” John asks as he turns and walks to Mrs. Hudson.

“I called up several times, but he was either ignoring me or gone off gallivanting in his mind palace.” Fiddling with her necklace, she looks up the stairs. “I would have gone up, but my hip is a bit stiff today.”

Despite the automatic desire to ask after her hip (hazards of being a doctor when someone presents with an ailment), John knows better than to inquire. Mrs. Hudson will tell him it's nothing to worry about and it's just one of those things that happens at her age. That she's finally consented to get her hip replaced at the end of January (after putting off the surgery for years) means she's in near-constant agony. 

Not that there's anything John can do about it, so he keeps mum. 

“I'll bring it up for him then, shall I?” John offers. 

“Would you, dear?” It is asked as if she doesn't know that that's exactly what John would say.

Still, social niceties and all that, John supposes. 

It's a standard Royal Mail parcel box with their address neatly written in the 'TO' section with Mrs. and Mr. Holmes' address in the return spot with an admonition not to return it under any circumstance. John juggles the box along with the two bags of groceries he's carrying and says his goodbyes.

Jogging up the stairs, John calls out to Sherlock, but doesn't get an reply. Sherlock was in a strop when John left because John was insisting that they needed more in the fridge than four human eyeballs, two sheep spleens, something John doesn't want to contemplate in the crisper, six different kinds of jam, bread that should be an experiment with the amount of fuzz on it, some questionable carrots, and bottle of HP sauce. 

Sherlock's stance was that takeaway was a perfectly acceptable option for food: it came to them, they didn't have to clean up too much when they were done, and could go on about their lives. (Meaning a rather spectacular amount of mutual orgasms. His words.)

However, they were out of tea and milk and there was no way John was going any longer without either. (Plus, the lube supply was getting low. They hadn't quite made it far enough to have penetrative sex, neither could hold out that long, but it was something John was thinking about more and more. And while the coconut oil had used in a pinch this morning – another thing they were out of now – it wasn't going to work for what John had in mind.)

Without dropping the parcel (though it was a near thing), John manages to hang up his coat and toe off his shoes.

In the sitting room, draped over the couch like an emperor is Sherlock looking aloof and gorgeous, eyes closed, hand steepled under his chin. 

If he isn't going to greet John, then John is going to put the groceries away while the putting is good.

When all the things that need to go in the fridge are put away, John is debating whether to make a cup of tea or a mug of hot cocoa. He's going to need to go back to the Hyde Park and get some more. Maybe the large bag this time. Maybe several of the large bags.

Before he can fully decide, Sherlock drapes himself over John from behind.

“You were gone for ages,” Sherlock says, his breath ruffling John's hair as he speaks.

“Less than an hour,” John retorts, turning around to face Sherlock. “Hello, you.”

Rather than answering, Sherlock leans down and kisses John. It's slow and thorough and John can't tell if it's the best greeting ever or a punishment meant to show him what he missed while he was away. 

Grasping Sherlock's hips, John settles in for the ride. He loves the way Sherlock leans into him, humming softly in pleasure (something John doesn't think Sherlock knows he does and won't ever bring it to his attention lest he stop). Loves the way Sherlock will wrap his whole body around John when he can, engulfing John in scent and feel; grounding John even as his mind flies apart. 

“Did you get milk?” Sherlock asks when they break apart, resting his forehead on John's.

“Yeah. I was just thinking we need to go back to Hyde Park and stock up.”

“We should go soon. The closer to Christmas it gets, the more people will infest the places.”

“A parcel came for you from your parents,” John says as he gets the milk out of the fridge. 

“Oh, god,” Sherlock groans and flops dramatically onto a kitchen chair. 

Ignoring his antics, John gets out the last of the hot cocoa and goes about making them each a mug.

“Do you think it's your Christmas present?” John asks as he gently stirs the milk in the saucepan. (The fit Sherlock had thrown when John tried to microwave the milk the first time is on best never to bring about again.)

“Doubtful,” Sherlock eyes the parcel on the kitchen table as if it were a bomb.

“How do you know?”

“No glitter.”

“What is it?”

“I haven't opened it yet!”

“But you're the great Sherlock Holmes, surely you can deduce what it is.” John grins at him before turning back to add the cocoa into the warm milk. 

“I don't have x-ray vision and thus can only tell you that whatever is in here is something old and something my mother or father wanted you to see.”

“Father?” John asks.

“Yes, father. He might seem nice and cuddly, but he's a schemer.” Sherlock pokes the box with his right index finger. “Mycroft got his scheming from Father.”

Try as he might, John can't quite reconcile the lovely, if a bit scattered man he's met a handful of times as master manipulator. 

“You going to open it or poke at it until February?” John brings the mugs to the table and set them down. He pulls a chair around so that he can sit next to Sherlock. It's a bit crowded, but John enjoys the way Sherlock presses up against his right side. 

“Fine,” Sherlock huffs. 

Grabbing a knife of dubious origin (John thinks it looks a bit like a Jodpur knuckle knife), Sherlock deftly cuts through sellotape.

There's no note that John can see; only red tissue paper with green Christmas trees all over it. Under the tissue paper are four stunning, hand-carved nutcrackers: one in green, one in red, one in blue, and one in purple.

John nearly reaches out to take one out of the box, but is stopped by the look on Sherlock's face. It's unlike anything John has seen before and he desperately tries to identify the emotions. Sadness is the overwhelming one, some anger, but Sherlock's lips are also curved up ever so slightly in a smile.

“Sherlock?” John asks tentatively. 

“I used to dance,” Sherlock tells him seemingly apropos of nothing. “I loved dancing.”

John isn't sure what to say to that. That Sherlock knows how to dance is old news; many wonderfully horrid hours were spent in the next room being taught to dance by Sherlock. But, this sounds like something much more.

“You're a good dancer,” John says into the silences that stretches between them.

Ever so gently, Sherlock pulls out the green nutcracker, studies it, and sets it on the table to stand at attention over the other three.

“I was more than good. I was brilliant.”

“Of course you were,” John says with no small amount of humour. 

“I'm not saying that to boast, I really was brilliant.” Sherlock turns and looks at John earnestly. “I was in my second year at The Royal Ballet School the Christmas I was supposed to get these. They were to be both a preset and a congratulations.”

Riveted, John sits not daring to speak for fear that Sherlock won't finish his story. 

Several long moments pass in which Sherlock takes out the red one next. “It was coming up to end of term and we were to put on 'The Nutcracker'. As, I suppose, all ballet schools do this time of year. My parents were coming to see me. Mycroft was going to fix his exams so that he would be there too.” Next the blue one is taken out, there's a small chip in its left shoulder and Sherlock gently runs his fingers over it. “It was so stupid. I was hurrying to class and slipped on the wet stairs. I felt my bone snap, then nothing until I woke up in a hospital bed hours later.” 

From the tone of his voice (and the fact that Sherlock doesn't dance any more), John knows that this story is not going to have a happy ending. “You had surgery?”

“Compound fracture of my left femur.” 

Automatically, John places his hand on Sherlock's left thigh directly over the old scar he's never asked about. “How long where you in the hospital?”

“Nine days.” Sherlock picks up his mug of cocoa and takes several long sips. “My parents weren't in the room when I fully woke up, but Mycroft was. He didn't need to say anything. I could read on his face that I would never dance again.”

“Bones heal,” John argues.

“They mostly do, but I would miss at least six months, if not more, before the bone would be mend enough for rigorous workouts of a serious ballet dancer. And by then, I'd be so far behind that I would never catch up.”

“You were what sixteen? Seventeen?” John speculates.

“Twelve.”

“Twelve!” The mind boggles at anyone having an attainable dream at that age. Let alone having it taken away. 

“I was very good and in order to be a professional dancer, you have to train your body from a very young age. The positions ballet dancers especially force their bodies into are far from natural. “

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. Fore several days I refused to speak, to eat, to even acknowledge anyone or anything.”

There's a joke on the tip of John's tongue about starting that early too, but now is not the time. 

“Mycroft left a newspaper behind on the fifth day. I was bored and hurting and needed a distraction so I read it. There was the article on Carl Powers.” Now, Sherlock gently takes out the purple nutcracker and lines it up with the other three. “All my energy focused on solving his murder.”

Two tragedies (on very different scales) that altered so many lives even decades later. John wonders at the oddities of life. At the twists and turns that brought him and Sherlock to this exact moment in time. To be sitting at their scarred kitchen table, sipping hot cocoa pressed up against each other, revealing passed childhood traumas. 

Leaning his head on Sherlock's shoulder, John studies the nutcrackers. “Where do these fellows fit in?”

“Father had them commissioned. They were supposed to be a surprise after the final performance.” 

“They're lovely.”

“I found them in his workshop months later and was about to destroy them when he walked in. He rarely raised his voice, but he did that day.” As Sherlock leans his cheek on John's head, John can feel him smile slightly at the memory. 

“And he's kept them all this time?”

“Obviously.”

“Wonder why he sent them now.”

“Because he knew that it wouldn't hurt me to look at them any more.”

John pulls back to study at Sherlock; there's melancholy on his face, wistfulness, but also a settled contentment. It's a combination John completely understands. Leaning in, he kisses Sherlock softly on the lips.

“It's devastating, to have to give up something you've worked so hard for,” John says. “But, if you're very lucky, something even better comes along. Something you never could have dreamed of.”

The smile Sherlock gives him is full and artless; one John rarely sees, one that's only for him.

“Sometimes it takes a fucking long time, but yes,” Sherlock agrees. Smirking a bit when John starts at the little-used curse word. 

“But, it's worth it. All the pain, all the waiting.”

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock fervently agrees before covering John's mouth with his own.


	8. Special Ingredients

With her hip as sore as it is, Martha decides that while she's getting a start on Christmas baking, she is going to try that recipe that Sherlock gave her the other day along some pure cocoa and a small jar of special butter. 

If the brownies are awful, she'll just bin them. 

“Mustn't forget to make a regular batch and have them at the ready for the boys,” she mutters to herself as she sets the oven to preheat. While Sherlock will know to steer clear, John can get a bit tetchy about her herbal soothers, so best make sure he never gets a hold of her special brownies. 

Turning on the radio, Martha butters two pans (the glass one with the special butter, the tin one with regular. She even writes down which one is which and sticks the piece of paper to the fridge with a magnet) then sets them aside. 

Diligently, she starts to measure ingredients, mentally planning what else she's going to bake: mince pies, some shortbread (which she'll take over to her sister's), ginger snaps, and she might try her and at the Nanaimo bars that Mrs. Turner's married ones made last year. (Apparently, the 'real' recipe calls for custard flavoured butter icing, but Gabe's mother had always made them with mint icing, so that's what Gabe had done. They seem easy enough to make and John loves mint.)

There will need to be plenty for the boys while she's away. 

She's been invited to her sister's from Christmas Eve through the New Year's Day . Though she hadn't bee sure if she truly wanted to be away for so long, recent events have changed her mind. With the boys having finally pulled their heads out of their arses, things are a little bit noisier than usually above stairs.

Not that she minds, but at her age, she needs her rest. (Plus, it gets her blood going with no real outlet and in can't be good to be this frustrated at this stage in life.)

Turning on the electric mixer, she combines the oil, sugar, and an egg; even as little as five years ago, she would have done all the mixing by hand. But, she's not as young as she used to be.

Before she goes to her sister's, she's going to mention to Sherlock that she can hear them and that maybe he and John should try to be a bit more circumspect in the future. 

Or think about soundproofing between their flats. (A much more realistic solution.)

If that doesn't work, she'll tell John.

That will be a last resort because John will bluster and the tips of his ears will turn red and he won't be able to look at her for a week, but the problem will be solved. 

If they decided to go with soundproofing, maybe she can get some other repairs done at the same time. The wiring needs seeing to (the way Sherlock does experiments at the kitchen table does something atrocious to her outlets) and the hot water tank isn't lasting near as long as it should. 

Though, maybe if the boys start taking showers together, there'll be more water to go around and she'll be able to have long showers again, they do so help with her hip. 

On second thought, once the boys start showering together there'll probably be less, not more water available. 

When she shuts off the mixer, she can hear the telltale sounds of festivities (of the non-holiday nature) starting upstairs. Wiping her hand clean, she turns up the radio and thinks that she might just pop round to Tescos to get the ingredients for mince pies and Nanaimo bars as soon as she puts the brownies in the oven. 

Hearing a particularly loud groan from Sherlock, she adds earplugs to her mental list of things to get from the store.


	9. Listing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to angst...

Though his parents ask him to make a Christmas List, Sherlock ignores them; their gifts will be themed and not all that useful. Mycroft gives the best gifts. He never asks, but always manages to get Sherlock something he truly wanted or needed (within reason and barring parental outrage). 

Mostly, Mummy and Daddy will get him what they think he likes not what he wants. (As multiple ungranted requests for foetal pigs and bee hives have proven.) 

Plus, the things Sherlock truly want no one can get for him. 

It's been years since he believed in Father Christmas, but until this year he'd kept pretending for his parents' sake. (That, and he did tend to get better gifts from Father Christmas.) This year, however, he had to put his foot down and firmly told his sniffling mother and sad-eyed father, that he didn't need presents from an imaginary person. (One who essentially spies on young children, then sneaks into their houses to leave items behind in a payment system to keep them well docile and behaved.)

At ten, Sherlock is taller than most of his peers, is a brilliant ballet dancer, smarter than anyone in school (including the teachers), and never can quite find the right things to say (even if all he did was speak the truth).

All of which lead to getting teased and the occasional bloody nose. (Lester Hedgeston won't be clipping him about the ears and calling him a sissy boy who likes to touch girls – and other much worse things – any more; not since Sherlock kneed him in the groin and whispered that if Lester didn't leave him alone, Sherlock would tell everyone that Lester's sister hadn't gone away to school, but left because her real father had come to get her when she came out to her mother and stepfather as gay and been smacked hard enough to get a black eye.)

The things Sherlock wants most are not things per se, but intangibles that no one would ever be able to get for him. 

What he wants most is to have just one friend. One person who understands him, who'll laugh with him, who'll go on adventures with him. Redbeard had filled that roll for an all too-short a time.

The ache in Sherlock's heart, two years on, makes him re-evaluate the merits of having a friend; it would hurt so much worse when they inevitably leave. 

It's best if he focuses on what he wants most: to be a professional ballet dancer, to become the Premier danseur noble for a world-class dance company. Maybe compose and choreograph his own ballets one day when he can no longer dance professionally. 

A small pat of him still just wants a friend to talk to to share with. But, given his personality, it's very unlikely to happen. (Ten friendless years have prove that.) Dance will be his best friend; one which has never let him down, one which he has always understood, one which always surprises him, one which gives him such joy. No person could ever be all that to him. 

# # # 

There's no point in doing a Christmas List as it's not as if anyone will bother to read it. His parents, while sober, are in horrid moods this year and John doesn't want to provoke them. (His mum lost her job when the company she worked for shut down, and there's little money at the moment. Maybe not even enough for a tree, the only part of Christmas John actually likes is trimming the tree.)

He needs knew football boots and shin guards, but those are things that they can't afford. Not and still have enough left over for a decent Christmas dinner. It's been years since he's asked Father Christmas for anything and he's not going to start asking now. (Not that he believes, but loads of his people at school still get gifts from Father Christmas and keep talking about what they're asking for.)

Tom Porter said he'd pay John five quid to do his maths homework for the week and John thinks he's going to make the deal. (Where Tom is going to get five quid from his, Tom's problem, not John's. But, John will demand at least partial payment before he does a sum.) If he does well, maybe he can do homework for more kids and get enough money to buy the tree this year. (The tree is more important than football boots. Probably.)

No one at school knows how bad it is at home; John always uses the excuse that his dad works nights (true) and is a light sleeper (false) not to have friends over. The occasional bruises that he can't hide, John blames on footie or rugby or the occasional fights he gets into. (Being smaller than even the girls has caused some problems; though mostly for those who think he's an easy mark.) Home is far from perfect, but he doesn't want to get stuck in a council flat with some family who only takes on kids for extra dosh. 

What John desperately wants for Christmas is to be left alone. To not to have to put on a smile and pretend that everything is fine and that life is grand. He wants one person who can see through the smile and know that he's not happy, know that he likes fighting even if he knows it's wrong to like it, to know that John wants nothing more than to be away and not have to worry what others think. (To know, untold, that it's a danger night and to convince their parents to let John sleepover. To know that John isn't always happy and mild-mannered.)

What he wants is to be eighteen and away from his family, which is awful, but true. He wants to start his life and be a doctor and travel and help people, have adventures with someone who understands him and his darker side.

That said, John has eight more long years before he can leave home and start his life. Until then, he'll make friends that never know him, play games he doesn't really care about, and pretend to be something that others want him to be.


	10. Adding UP

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's POV

Using the remote to lock his car without looking, Greg wastes no time in knocking sharply on the door to 221 Baker Street.

Over the last three hours, he's texted both Sherlock and John multiple times with no answer. He even resorted to calling John (Sherlock rarely answers even when they're on an active case) with voicemaile his only response. 

It's not out of the realm of possibility that either or both of them have been hurt or are deep in some private case. (That said, there's an alert that he gets if either of them turn up at the A&E. Something he had set up after Sherlock disappeared and he feared the worst for John. There's also an alert if Sherlock's name or his known aliases are used with other law enforcement.)

“Oh, hello Detective Lestrade,” Mrs. Hudson says as she opens the door and ushers him inside.

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson,” he says giving her a tight smile. “Sherlock in?”

“He and John are upstairs,” she tells him with a oddly knowing look. 

“I'll just go up then.”

“Be sure to knock first,” she calls up after him. 

Greg jogs up the stairs to Sherlock and John's flat with vague unease in his stomach. Though Mrs. Hudson had seemed her normally cheerful self when she'd answered the door the warning about knocking did nothing to decrease his worry.

Three steps from the landing, Greg hears the low rumble of Sherlock's laughter. Real laughter, not the fake shit he uses on suspects/witnesses/victims. The kind of laughter Greg has only ever overheard and always because of –

John's higher pitched giggle mixes with Sherlock's laughter causing the knot of dread in Greg's stomach to dissipate. 

Irritation and anger quickly take its place for the needless concern.

Without knocking, Greg jerks the door to B open.

John and Sherlock are in their chairs. Chairs which are slightly closer than usual. (Greg doesn't think that it's his imagination, but he wouldn't swear to it.)

“What?” demands Sherlock, glaring at him.

“Hello, Greg,” calls John. 

Both responses stand as perfect examples of their personalities, Greg thinks.

“I fucking called and texted both of you!” Greg all but yells at them. “Multiple times. I thought maybe you were hurt or in trouble because most normal people respond to increasingly frantic text their friends send them.” Greg glares at both of them. John looks sheepish and Sherlock bored. Typical.

Guiltily, John pats down his body as if only just now realising that he didn't have his mobile. 

“Sorry,” John says, “I don't know where I put my phone.”

“Try the kitchen floor,” Sherlock tells him an oddly smug look on his face. 

Greg wonders if Sherlock had stolen John's phone and hidden it. The man has nimble fingers and zero compulsion about theft. Though, for some reason, John's ears turn red at Sherlock's suggestion.

“Right.” John gets up and ambles into the kitchen, coming back holding up his phone. “The battery's gone flat.”

“What do you want?” Sherlock demands as John plugs his mobile into its charger.

“I have a case.” As if Greg would be there for any other reason.

“Busy!” Sherlock snaps.

“With what?” There's no way Sherlock has a private case, not with as relaxed as he is. Not with the easy laughter Greg had heard before he'd burst through the door. 

“Nothing that concerns you,” Sherlock says in that imperious tone that makes most people want to punch him in the face.

“Sherlock,” John admonishes. 

There are levels of John admonishing Sherlock and this is one that Greg has never heard before. The exasperation is there, the amusement, but there's something else that Greg can't quite put his finger on. 

“Busy,” Sherlock repeats, but it's more of a question now.

“What do you have?” John asks.

“Found a body of Jannick Sedine dead in a building slated for demolishment.” Greg can see the cutting remark already forming on Sherlock's tongue. Not wanting to hear it, Greg keeps talking. “He was killed elsewhere, frozen for an as yet unknown amount of time. Before being thawed out enough to be posable and carefully put in a leather chair behind a desk I'm told costs about three grand.” Sherlock is looking more interested. “There were piles of fake notes all around him. Stacks really. Reckon there's supposed to be close to a billion pounds.”

“Like an unredeemed Scrooge?” John asks. He looks as if he might be trying to fight a grin when he glances at Sherlock. Sherlock doesn't even bother and grins widely at John.

Something is most definitely off to Greg's mind.

“Scrooge turned into a sentimental idiot who ended up overly attached to everyone he'd ever met.”

“So says the man who—”

“Where's the building?” Sherlock asks, cutting off whatever John was going to say, but not nearly as sharply as he would have in the past.

Greg rattles off the address while studying them. 

There have been many remarkable changes in Sherlock the last couple of years. All of them, as far as Greg can tell, relate directly back to John. 

However, whatever this is now, affects both of Sherlock and John.

AS they rise from their chairs and head to the front door, Greg notices that Sherlock's hand ghosts down John's back. The only reason Greg sees the move is because night has fallen and they have yet to close the curtains and the sitting room is reflected in the window. 

The subtle smile John gives Sherlock (and the one Sherlock gives John) suddenly has all the pieces fitting into place: they've finally figured out what most of them have known for years. They're in love and no neither of them are denying or ignoring it.

There was a reason Greg was so unsettled at John's wedding: the first couple of drafts of Sherlock's best man speech had read like a love letter (the final version was much, much more restrained) and it hurt Greg to know that for whatever reason Sherlock and John had lost their chance. 

Now, it seemed, they hadn't. 

A lot of bad shit had gone down, but they seemed to have sorted themselves out.

The thing that he couldn't identify is suddenly glaringly obvious; they are both happy. Happy and settled and enjoying this new stage of their life. 

Well, good for them, Greg thinks as they clatter down the stairs. 

It was about bloody time.


	11. Mulling Over

“What are doing?” Sherlock asks, horror filling every syllable. 

“Digging a tunnel to Antarctica,” John says blithely as he starts cutting up an orange. The sweet tangy smell of citrus fills his nostrils and he inhales deeply loving the aroma. It's been years since he's made mulled wine and he's looking forward to drinking a mug in front of the fire. 

“Then you're going about,” Sherlock tells him as he comes to stand right next to John. “Also, if you're thinking about making mulled wine, you're doing that wrong too.”

“Not thinking about,” John replies, ignoring Sherlock's criticism (if Sherlock isn't bitching about something John is doing, then something is very wrong), “in the middle of.” John bumps his shoulder companionably into Sherlock's arm, relishing their closeness. 

“Well, technically, yes. You've gathered the correct ingredients. However, I don't think you want to use the 2005 Château Latour.”

“Why not, I thought it was good wine?” John says as he sets the knife down and turns to kiss Sherlock just because he can. It's just a peck of lips on lips, but it fills John with a giddy sense of peace and happiness. A smile slowly blooms over John's face and he doesn't try to stop it. 

Sherlock stands there, returning John's smile looking happier than John's ever seen him. Then, Sherlock leans down and gives John's kiss. It's slightly less playful than what John had done, but still closed mouthed and more of a reaffirmation of what they now are than a prelude to anything more. (At least no more for right now.)

“At £660 to £1,650 a bottle, depending on the market,” Sherlock says when they break apart as if they hadn't just exchanged a couple of kisses and grinned at each other like fools, “it would be a shame to pour it into a pot, dump a bunch of things into it, then boil away the alcohol.” 

“£1,650 for a fucking bottle of wine?” John asks, vaguely horrified. 

“Well, 1947 bottle of Cheval-Blanc Bordeaux sold at auction for £192,000. Compared to that £660 to £1,650 a bottle is practically free. Though the Cheval-Blanc was a six litre bottle.”

“£192,000 for a bottle of fucking wine?” John repeats. This time there's not 'vaguely' about it now, John is truly horrified. “There are good-sized homes that sell for less than that.”

“Not in London there aren't,” Sherlock says, his tone heavily implying that homes elsewhere are unimportant.

“Right, well, I won't be using your stupidly expensive bottle of wine, then, will I?” John wonders if there's any other wine I the house. The whole reason he was making mulled wine is that he'd spied the bottle while searching for the cheese grater. (He'd had to go downstairs and beg some cloves off of Mrs. Hudson. Oddly enough, they'd had everything else. Even the cinnamon sticks. And John really doesn't want to know why Sherlock bought those.)

Sherlock rummages through one of the upper cupboards (one that mostly has rarely-used equipment) and pulls down another bottle of wine. “Use this.”

“Less than £500?” John asks as he gingerly takes the bottle from Sherlock.

“Significantly.”

“Is it safe to use?”

“I would never poison you!”

“You have. Multiple times.”

“Not this time.” Sherlock looks affronted and John can't help but laugh. 

Dropping a sloppy kiss on Sherlock's chin, John goes about opening the wine. They stand close together, bumping into one another as John pours the wine into the saucepan on the hob and Sherlock adds the orange, steeling a piece for himself.

“It'll take about fifteen minutes to heat,” John says once everything is in the saucepan.

“Whatever shall we do to pass the time?” Sherlock asks with a knowing smile. 

“I'm sure we'll think of something.” John puts the lid on the top of the saucepan and turns once again to face Sherlock. “Come here, you.” 

They end up having to add another cup of brandy to the mulled wine as all the alcohol boiled away as they were otherwise occupied.


	12. End Results

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erm. Sex. Pretty much all sex. And feelings. But mostly sex.

Tonight, the seventeen steps going up the flat look to be at least double that. It isn't the beer (three pints) or the whisky (just the one, John has no wish for a spectacular hangover and rarely mixes his alcohols. At least not since that last leave in Dubai), it's more the knowledge that the flat will be empty and he feels like an idiot for missing Sherlock.

He's come home to an empty flat more nights than he can count; though that was before he and Sherlock had become what they now were. (They really needed to have a conversation about what they were, except John is awful at those sorts of thing and Sherlock is worse.)

Maybe with Sherlock out, John can try and figure out what needs saying.

Someone in Economic and Specialist Crime over at the Met had called Sherlock just after breakfast that day and interrupted what was turning into a fantastic morning. The case was mostly looking at pictures of paintings and Sherlock rambling away about brush strokes and paint pigment and contacts he'd made while away. (Apparently, he'd be responsible for some big art forgery organisation being discovered and dismantled.) 

After two hours of utter boredom, John had gone home. 

Until Mike had called, John had forgotten that tonight was the last quiz night at Mike's local until the new year. As John had cancelled on Mike twice in the last two months (blaming his shoulder, but really not wanting to leave the flat now that he was finally back for good), John decided cancelling a third time wasn't on.

It wasn't as if Sherlock was around so staying home wasn't all that appealing. (It wasn't that John resented the case, not at all, it was that he simple missed Sherlock. This thing between them was new, when they'd settle into it a bit more, John was sure he would once again the time he got alone in the flat.)

In the end, he'd had a fun time. Mike was always good for a laugh (as were the two other doctors and one school teacher on their team) and they'd done well enough at the quiz to yearn a free round. (Hence the whisky.) And, the evening out with people who had nothing to do with police work had helped John keep his mind off of Sherlock. (Sort of.)

“Good, you're back,” calls Sherlock as John closes the door to the flat and takes off his coat. 

Though surprised that Sherlock is home, John is happy. “Thought you'd be at the Met for hours yet.” John toes of his shoes and hangs up his coat.

“I've done all I can for Chan. She's less of an idiot then most of them in ESC. If she—”

“What?” John asks as he stops midway across the room to kiss Sherlock hello. Sherlock is staring at him in horror.

“What the hell are you wearing?”

“It's an ugly Christmas jumper.”

It had taken him days of searching off an on to find it as he wasn't sure if he'd be going to the Holiday Quiz Night. He'd decided if he didn't go this year, he would next and it wasn't as if the jumper would go bad stored in the wardrobe for a year. 

In the end, John had found this jumper at an online store and he is quite proud of the results. Nine reindeer flew across his chest (all of their glowing green, Rudolph's nose red) pulling Father Christmas (also with glowing green eyes) in his sleigh, while stars (blue) and snow (white) twinkle in the background.

“It has lights,” Sherlock says coming closer as if he can't quite believe what he's seeing.

“It plays music too,” John tells him gleefully. Then, just to needle him a little bit pinches the place at the hem of the jumper and has a very tinny and awful version of 'Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer' screeching out.

“It's an abomination!” Sherlock rears back as if he's had an electrical shock when the first notes plays.

(As John has seen this happen, he easily sees the similarities.) 

“Yeah, well, it came in second place as the best ugliest Christmas jumper and got me a free pint.”

Off-key music continues to fills the sitting room as Sherlock seems glued to the spot as if unable to process exactly what it is he's seeing and hearing. 

“Take it off! You're destroying vital parts of my brain.”

John snorts. “This is a brilliant ugly jumper.”

“Take it off now!” Sherlock orders.

“If you hate it so much, you do it!” John challenges him, the last bit said over the final ringing (sour) notes of the song. 

In one swift stride, Sherlock is in front of John and tugging on the hem of the jumper. They tussle together, more for the fun of it than any real desire for a fight. One of them manages to get the music going again and John can't stop the giggles that spill out.

“I'm burning this thing,” Sherlock promises darkly.

“Not in here, you're not.” Giving in, John lets Sherlock pull the jumper off him. It's scratches and from the gleam in Sherlock's eye John is about want to have on far less clothing. 

“I'll do it at Barts,” Sherlock says tossing the still playing jumper across to the front door. “It'll probably melt and let of noxious fumes that poison us. I think it would be best if I melt it with a corrosive substance. Acid maybe.”

“Fucking nutter,” John says affectionately and fists his left hand in Sherlock shirt to pull him down for that hello kiss. 

It's been far too long since his lips have been on Sherlock's. Sherlock must feel the same way, for he opens his mouth instantly and their tongues meet half way. Sherlock tastes like coffee and apples and chocolate and Sherlock and John takes his time exploring Sherlock's mouth. His right hand tangles in Sherlock's hair and he holds him in place. (Not that it feels as if Sherlock's would pull back, but John has discovered that he enjoys keeping him as close as possible. And, from the way Sherlock's hands grip John's hips, Sherlock seems to feel the same way.)

Sighing with happiness, John rises further on his toes to bring their bodies into better alignment. Always helpful in this aspect of things, Sherlock moves his hands to John's arse and holds him close. (There's no erasing the fourteen centimetres between them, but with some strategic shifting there's really not much need.)

They press against each other, swaying together for more (better) contact. John pulls his mouth from Sherlock's and kisses his way to the underside of Sherlock's chin. There's a series of freckles and moles along the left side of Sherlock's neck just begging to be kissed. (There's also a darker part of John that urges him to suck hard, bite even, to mark up Sherlock's neck with visible signs of their new status.)

From the way Sherlock's hands tighten on John's arse, he might not be opposed to the idea. (Though it is one more fitted to those fifth form than in their fifth decade of life.)

Wanting (needing) more, John deftly undoes the top three buttons of Sherlock's shirt (well, not counting the one he never bothers to do up) exposing enough skin that he can now run his hands over most of Sherlock's hard chest. 

For a man who (seems to) rarely do any physical exercise, Sherlock is remarkably fit. (Lucking git.)

Knowing what makes Sherlock weak in the knees, John avoids his nipples, instead circling the soft skin around and around them. Sometimes getting just close enough for a ghost of a touch. Under his right hand, John can feel how fast Sherlock's heart his beating. 

With far less dexterity, John undoes the last of the buttons of Sherlock's shirt and runs his hands up and down the length of Sherlock's torso. 

Both of their breathing is coming fast and they're rocking against each other, mouths once again kissing hungrily. John shifts and he can feel Sherlock's growing erection pressing against his belly. It's amazing to feel the hard length and know that it's all for him. That Sherlock who can (and does) ignore so many of his body's needs, can't (and doesn't) ignore this one.

That what they feel for each other is something both of them want and need is still a bit mind-blowing to John. That this physical aspect (one he was never sure if Sherlock ever thought about) is such a vital part of them now.

Needing to feel more, John swiftly undoes the hook, button, and zipper of Sherlock's trousers (only poncy fucking trousers need so much to hold them closed) and slides his hand inside.

“John,” Sherlock moans as John closes his hand around Sherlock's silk-covered length. 

John strokes him as best he can within the confines of Sherlock's trousers as he thrusts his own growing erection against Sherlock's thigh. The angle is awkward and he can't do much more than move an inch or so in either direction, but John can't be arsed to care. From the way Sherlock is panting, it's working just fine for him too. 

Still, John is a greedy bastard and he wants more after only a minute or so. (More room to touch, to move, to have Sherlock making more of those breathy moans he can't seem to stop. He wants to see the long, slender length of Sherlock's cock in his hand. Taste the pre-come that beads at the head.)

With more speed than finesse, John manages to get Sherlock's trousers down far enough to easily stroke Sherlock's hard cock. There's a visible damp spot on his pants. (Fucking black silk that John would tease him about, except the material feels fucking brilliant under his fingers.)

Dropping to his knees, John nuzzles Sherlock's cock, breathing in deeply the smell of his arousal. Sherlock buries his hands in John's hair; not directing, more holding on as if to ground them to this spot. As he mouths the head, John gently cups Sherlock's balls in his left and as his right stokes Sherlock's arse.

“John!”Sherlock cries, his knees wobbling slightly, fingers tightening in John's hair. 

John looks up the long, lean body: trousers just below his balls, cock perfectly outlined against the black silk of his pants, shirt hanging open, a red flush starting at his chest, rising up along his throat and colouring his cheeks, his mouth is swollen from kisses, and his eyes seem grey and unfathomable in this light with the pupils blown wide. John's cock throbs with want at the sight. 

Grinning, John continues to taste and suck and lick through the now damp fabric of Sherlock's pants; the silk barely dulling anything, but keeping them apart in that one vital way. 

Sill, John doesn't push Sherlock's pants aside; they're an interesting barrier between them and John wants to see just how long Sherlock will let it stay. 

As it turns out, the answer is not long at all. When John stroke behind Sherlock's balls, Sherlock untangles his fingers from John's hair and shoves his pants down.

Taking the invitation for what it is, John swallows Sherlock's cock nearly down to the base. It's been a while since John has routinely had a cock in his mouth and he's out of practice of deep throating. 

From the panting moans, Sherlock doesn't seem to mind. Keeping his right hand on Sherlock's left hip, John continues to taste and lick and suck on Sherlock's cock as the fingers of his left hand stroke his balls. Sherlock is salty and smooth and so fucking gorgeous that John wonders how he kept his mouth off of him for so long. 

Slipping further back, John's index finger slides over Sherlock's tight hole. 

“John, fuck!” Sherlock cries, his knees buckling just enough that his cock slips from John's mouth and his finger presses in to the first knuckle. He can feel Sherlock tensing around him and John is afraid he's hurt Sherlock. 

“Steady,” John says, gently easing his finger from Sherlock's hole and wrapping both is hands around Sherlock's waist to keep him from crumpling to the floor. Sherlock is trembling, hips jerking, breath coming in gasps. 

“Please, John!” Sherlock tugs at John's hair, then his hands drop to his shoulders and Sherlock's tries to haul John to his feet. “John, please.”

Acceding to Sherlock's pleas, John stands and cups Sherlock's face in his hands.

“What do you want, love?” John asks, brushing his lips of Sherlock's. The endearment just slipped out, but Sherlock doesn't seem to notice.

“You,” Sherlock answers instantly. “Please, you.”

“You have me,” John promises, but Sherlock shakes his head.

“I want to feel you inside me,” Sherlock growls, his right and going down to cup John through his jeans. 

John moans and his hips jerk in response to both Sherlock's words and touch. 

“Bed—”

“No! Now! Here! Please!” Each word is said as Sherlock drops frantic kisses along John's left shoulder, carefully skirting the new and old scar tissue. The sheer want in the words and actions has John's cock twitching in sympathetic desire. 

“Sher—”

“Need you now,” Sherlock insists, he backs up towards the couch and would have fallen on his arse, if John hadn't caught him around the waist. 

“Easy,” John soothes. The couch is so close and even Sherlock's bed seems miles away. “Don't fall.”

Together, they hastily divest Sherlock of the rest of his clothes and tumble onto the couch together; foreheads bumping, hands scambling on sweat-slicked skin, John's knee ends up dangerously close to Sherlock's crotch. 

“Tactical error,” Sherlock says between kisses as John's tongue delves back into Sherlock's mouth, sharing the taste of Sherlock's arousal with him.

“What?” John pants.

“You still have your cloths on.” Sherlock jerks ineffectually at John's jeans causing the material to pull unpleasantly tight against John's aching cock.

They grudgingly septate long enough for the seconds it takes to make John naked. This time when the get back on the couch, John is sitting upright, cool leather against his heated skin, and Sherlock kneeling over him. 

It's an awkward angle for kissing, but John's willing to stretch and he desperately wants Sherlock's mouth back on his. Tangling his fingers in Sherlock's hair, John pulls until their mouths are once again together. 

Sherlock settles more firmly on John's lap, their cocks just barely rubbing together; enough to entice, but nothing more. 

“Fucking giraffe,” John mutters affectionately. “You need to be shorter.”

“You need to be taller,” Sherlock counters nibbling at John's lower lip as he wraps his hand as best he can around their cocks. 

Tandem groans fill the room as Sherlock strokes them from root to tip and back. John loves the feel of another cock against his and the fact that this one is Sherlock's is on a whole other level. Their kissing is now back to frantic. More a smearing of lips and lapping of tongues than the coordinated dance of earlier; the desperate need to be as close as possible but without the control to make t happen nicely.

Letting go of Sherlock's hair, John drags his hands down Sherlock's back, nails scratching, and Sherlock arches into the touch all but purring with pleasure.

When John gets to Sherlock's arse, he doesn't lessen the pressure and beneath his fingers, Sherlock bucks and moans. (John files both reactions away for later.)

For now, he's focused on one thing: fucking Sherlock. 

They've never done this before and while John might have had thoughts of beds and slow languid thrusts, this is more them; unexpected and fast and together and fun. 

Using his left index finger, John circles Sherlock's hole over and over until he can feel the muscles loosen enough to slip his finger in. It's then that his brain points out that lube is necessary and he doesn't have any. 

“Fuck!” John growls in frustration.

“Yes,” Sherlock pants, pushing back on John's finger.

“No, wait.”

“No waiting!” Sherlock objects. “We've waited long enough.”

“We need lube.”

“Boring.”

“No, not boring. Necessary.”

“Boring that you don't think I wouldn't have thought of that,” Sherlock says sounding very smug.

Sherlock shifts around, pushing his right hand down between the cushions of the couch (somewhere John fears to venture) and comes back with bottle of lube.

“How long has that been there?” John asks.

“This bottle?” Sherlock asks, expertly flipping the lid open. “Two weeks, three days. There have been many others before it.” Sherlock looks John dead in the eye and smiles slowly. “I enjoy masturbating on the couch when you're not here.”

John can't help the way his hips thrust up at that information. The images that flood his mind nearly making him come. “Jesus, Sherlock.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock says, studying John through lust-filled eyes. “Very interesting.” 

“Suss that out later,” John says, grabbing the lube from Sherlock and squirting some onto his fingers.

Within seconds, John has his hand between Sherlock's legs and back on trails his finger along the crack of his arse. With the lube, his finger easily slide into Sherlock. They both moan at the sensation. John can't wait to bury his cock deep in that luscious arse and both feel and hear Sherlock moan.

It takes far less time than John would have thought (though, given Sherlock's startling revelation of how he spends some of his free time when John isn't around, maybe not), but John has two fingers deep inside Sherlock slowly scissoring open and shut. 

On top of him, Sherlock is writhing and moaning, his hand furiously working their cocks, though he has to keep stopping whenever John brushes his prostate. 

Soon enough, John as three fingers inside Sherlock, pumping back and forth, his wrist sliding against Sherlock's balls. Sherlock undulates his body as if unsure what sensation to chase: the fingers in his arse, the slide of wrist against his balls, or the hand on his cock. 

It's a bloody amazing sight; Sherlock all long and lean and flushed with desire, working his body to find pleasure from John's, breath coming in pants, more often than not, John's name escaping on the exhale. 

Deliberately, John runs the pad of his middle finger over Sherlock's prostate. Sherlock's entire body tenses and shivers, his mouth opens in a silent moan, another bead of pre-come forms at the tip of Sherlock's lovely cock, his foreskin now completely pulled back to expose the head. 

“Fucking beautiful,” John tells him, using his right hand to cup Sherlock's cheek. “Fucking amazing.”

“In me, John! Please.”

Waiting any longer would be cruel to both of them. 

With a nod, John pulls his fingers out and fumbles for the lube with his right hand. Going with there's never too much, he liberally drizzles lube over his cock, before stroking himself with his left hand. Above him, Sherlock watches, eyes wide, gaze dazed. 

There's not talk of condoms; they've both been tested for everything under the sun in the last year and this is not casual affair. 

When John can't stand it anymore, he tosses the lube aside and clutches his clean hand on Sherlock's left hip. 

“Budge up,” John tells him as he wraps his left hand around his own cock. 

Obligingly, Sherlock lifts up and allows John to guide him until they're lined up; the head of John's cock brushing Sherlock's anus. 

“John,” Sherlock breaths, eyes locked on John's.

“Take all the time you need,” John tells him. There's been issues in the passed and John would rather not do this than have Sherlock hurt himself. 

Ever so slowly, Sherlock lowers himself on John's cock. It might take centuries or seconds, John isn't sure. Forgetting any sort of etiquette, John grips Sherlock's hips with both hands hard enough to leave bruises and bites his lip until he draws blood in an effort not to thrust up.

A gentle hand on his face, soothes the hurt, before Sherlock's slides his thumb into John's mouth. (A frankly stupid move as John feels libel to bite it too.) John sucks and tongues Sherlock's thumb and tries not to fuck this up by ramming up into Sherlock.

Finally, Sherlock arse rests on John's thighs. 

They're both panting, sweat beading on their bodies, tremors racing down from head to toe. Their eyes are locked and a million words pass between them in the space of a heartbeat, just as many promises with the next. 

“Okay?” John asks shakily, letting Sherlock's thumb slip out of his mouth.

“Brilliant,” Sherlock answers, rolling his hips. 

“Then fucking move.”

With a wicked grin, Sherlock lazily raises himself up about an inch and slides back down. He gives John a knowing, slightly superior smile. 

Except, in this at least, John knows better than Sherlock. Gripping his hips tightly, John holds Sherlock in place as he fluidly rolls his own hips. It takes a couple of tries, but he finds what he's looking for. Sherlock jerks suddenly, then several long shudders seize him, he cries out John's name, and now desperately tries to move.

“John,” Sherlock begs as his hips jerk in abortive thrusts, unable to do more in John's strong hold. Sherlock's hands go to the back of the couch to try for leverage, but John has been working hard for weeks to make sure his left arm and shoulder is as strong as his right (he actually doesn't think he's been this fit since his Army days) and he manages to hold Sherlock in place. 

“Yes?” John asks, trying to sound mild-mannered and slightly bored, but really his cock is balls-deep in Sherlock and all he wants to do is thrust and thrust and thrust and feel Sherlock come undone around him before he empties himself inside Sherlock's shuddering body.

“I need you,” Sherlock says earnestly and John knows he means more than just in this moment. 

He could have said anything and rarely does Sherlock misuse words. Stretching up as best he can, John kisses Sherlock's lovely, swollen lips, loosening his hold. 

Instantly, Sherlock starts to move. This time he rises until John nearly slips out, only John lifting his hips keeps his cock inside Sherlock. 

When Sherlock slides back down, they both moan. 

They work in tandem, as always, and it doesn't take long for them to find a fast, hard rhythm that has them both moaning continuously. 

The sight of Sherlock hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, lips parted and swollen, breath coming in gasps, cock hard and red, the head slick with pre-come snaps John's last thread of control. He thrusts up hard the next time Sherlock presses down and they both yell as pleasure washes over therm. 

Wrapping his left hand around Sherlock's cock, John stokes him frantically trying his best to coordinate his downward motion with the upward thrusts of his hips. 

Something must be working right (though John isn't sure what exactly as he can't think anymore) as Sherlock moving in a way that has little grace and all hallmarks of bodily demands. 

Letting go of the back of the couch, Sherlock's right hand joins John's on his cock and they stroke him together, fingers interlacing. 

Little 'ohs' of pleasure leave Sherlock every time his thighs hit John's. His eyes are nearly slitted closed, but he seems to be forcing himself to try and keep them open. 

The next time their hands reach the head of Sherlock's cock, John sweeps his thumb over the head.

“John,” Sherlock keens, back bowing, as he comes in long, shuddering cries. 

John does his best to let Sherlock have his pleasure and tries to watch everything at once. However, the sensation of Sherlock's tight heat clamping around his cock is driving John mad and before the last bit of come dribbles down onto their joined hands, John is thrusting up into Sherlock with abandon. 

Letting go of Sherlock's cock, John clutches Sherlock hips and lifts him up a couple of inches. Sherlock's eye widen and John dimly thinks he's both surprised and impressed, but John doesn't give a toss as he fucks up into Sherlock's body. 

It doesn't take long; he's been on edge for what feels like an eternity. 

Less than handful of thrusts later, John's own back is arching and he's emptying himself into Sherlock's body. It feels bloody amazing; like nothing else ever before and John wants nothing more than for the sensation to last forever. 

Just as the last wave of his orgasm ebbs away, Sherlock collapses down on John. His head nestles in the crook of John's neck, breath puffing rapidly against collarbone. Unclenching his fingers, John flexes them several times then runs his hands up and down Sherlock's back before just wrapping his arms around Sherlock and holding him as close as the can in this position.

“Alright?” John manages when his brain finally unlocks language again. 

“Hmmm,” Sherlock hums, nuzzling into John and dropping a kiss on his shoulder. 

Needing to see Sherlock's face, just to make sure. John shifts slightly and pushes his head back against the couch cushions. Still Sherlock either doesn't want to look or has too many endorphins flooding his system to notice what John's after.

Ever so gently, John cups Sherlock's left cheek (took him a second to work out which hand to use) and pulls his face up. 

“Alright?” John asks again, searching Sherlock's eyes. He looks blissed out and John takes no little pride in that. 

“Fantastic,” Sherlock says. He studies John for several long moments before leaning down and softly kissing him. “I'm fantastic.”

“Yes, you're bloody fantastic, egotistical git.”

And John can't help it; he giggles. It might be the chemical rushing through their blood, it might tendrils of nerves, it might just be that it's them, but they both start laughing and can't stop. It's not hysterical, just chuckles and giggles that keep going just as they die down. 

Eventually, John's cock slips from Sherlock's body and they both groan softly. 

This time the kiss they share is a gentle promise of many things to come. Of future with plenty of other adventures filled with laughter. Holding him close, John revels in the sensation of Sherlock all around him and an almost incandescent happiness inside.


	13. Heart Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Warming up by the fire'

There is a wonderful calm in Sherlock's mind. One that he's rarely felt before. (Every other time, but two times have been because of John Watson.)

This is more than just calmness, this is bliss. This is happiness, Sherlock realises. A happiness he never thought he'd feel. (Doubted existed.)

Moments ago they were giggling like arrant school children, now they're holding each other, kissing whatever skin they can reach. 

Though his legs are starting to complain, Sherlock can't force himself to move. Shifting so that he can reach John's mouth, they share a long, lazy kiss that makes Sherlock think they'll have years to do so. The feel of John's hands tracing abstract shapes on his back is wonderfully grounding while simultaneously making Sherlock speculate decades I the future. 

Sherlock has never experienced an orgasm like the one he just had (had thought them something from overblown romance novels), but the joy and love, wonder and pleasure that coursed through him when he climaxed (lingered in softer form still) is more than the mix of various chemicals and hormones released during sex. (Chemicals and hormones whose names Sherlock can't quite name at the moment.) What he feels is some ephemeral sensation that has wholly to do with John.

Reality starts to push its way in; the room is cold (fire gone out, heating lowered for the night) and Sherlock shivers. His skin is tacky with sweat and come.

“Time to move,” John whispers, carding his fingers of his clean hand through Sherlock's hair. 

“No.” 

Despite his 'no', Sherlock knows he'll need to move very soon. It's just that he loves the feel of John under him, around him. Even the slow trickle of come from his arse (which should be revolting) is just one more sensation, one more proof of what has happened between them. Together. 

Sherlock always assumed having someone else's come on him would be awful (never imagined it in him. Well, except for John's and even then, Sherlock was ambivalent at best about it), but it's not. Maybe it's that knowledge that it's John's ejaculate, proof of his commitment to Sherlock (John would never have unprotected sexual relations unless he was in a committed, monogamous relationship), to them. To the future of them. 

Another shiver races through Sherlock.

“Right,” John says, dropping a kiss on Sherlock's right shoulder. “Moving now.”

“Don't want to move,” Sherlock mumbles. Indeed, for all his thighs are starting to scream at him, Sherlock isn't certain he can move. 

“I know, love, but we're going to be stuck together soon if we don't.”

Sherlock doesn't see how that would be a bad thing. 

“Fine.” Sherlock closes his eyes and snuggles closer to John.

“Lazy git,” John says with affection as he gently manhandles Sherlock until Sherlock ends up laying on the couch alone. Dropping a kiss on Sherlock's shoulder, John stands and grabs the blanket from the back of his chair, covering Sherlock with it. 

Comfortable in his nakedness, John wanders over to the fireplace and stirs the embers before he puts on another log. While Sherlock admires the view (especially the way John's arse stretches and flexes as he bends to grab a log. Three new fantasies pop into his mind, fully formed and Sherlock wonders just how long it'll be before he can have John inside him again) Sherlock worries about sparks and burns in very unpleasant places. (Places that would prevent acting out his new fantasies.)

Despite the danger, John manages to get away without any ill effects. 

However, he doesn't settle back down with Sherlock. 

“John?” Sherlock asks, the slightest bit worried that John might be heading up to his room for the night. 

“Just going to get a flannel,” John tells him, detouring back to the couch. Bending down, John places a kiss on Sherlock's forehead, his nose, a lingering one on his lips. 

Closing his eyes, Sherlock listens as John makes his way to the loo. The hiss and clank of the hot water being turned on soothes him. (The hot water heater and pipes truly need to be seen to.)

Through eyes more closed than open, Sherlock watches the as the flames slowly consume the new log and lets his mind wander where it will. He wonders where they'll sleep tonight. If this is another fundamental shift in their relationship. He hopes it's a permanent one. 

More than anything, Sherlock wants to be assured that they'll always be together. 

He hopes, very selfishly, that he dies first because he knows that he can not survive without John by his side. 

Maybe, decades from now, they can die together in some fantastic way. Searching for treasure and unleash a trap set centuries prior. Maybe in the country attacked by trained bees whose sting contain some hitherto unknown toxin that kills them instantly. Maybe in this very room when meteor hits the house, takes out the whole block. Only, it wouldn't be a meteor, but a misaimed rocket that was supposed to take out Parliament.

Suddenly, Sherlock knows what he wants to get John for Christmas. The thing that will be just for them, that will be a promise for a future, for years to come, a promise he'll ever leave again. 

Mrs. Hudson had asked him about repairs that needed to happen to the building and wondered if the first week of January would be convenient. (More than the repairs, she wanted to know about soundproofing, which Sherlock readily agreed to. Both the concept and the payment thereof.)

Baker Street is becoming a burden to Mrs. Hudson. She's not getting any younger and the house has many small problems that are growing into monumental ones. Though she loathes to admit it, she's going to have sell it soon as she can't really afford take care of it any more. 

Sherlock has the perfect solution: he'll buy Baker Street. It'll be his present to John. For both of them. For all three of them. 

The only thing that would truly change would be the name(s) on the deed. (And maybe hiring an actual house keeper.)

Giving John the home they share for Christmas will be the perfect gift. 

Pulling the blanket up to his nose (it smells like John, which is comforting beyond all measure. Especially in light of his recent plan) Sherlock's eyes close and his mind drifts. His legs (and arse) are sore; he shifts slightly trying to find a more comfortable position. The blanket slips off his body and Sherlock lets it; the fire is crackling merrily and the room has warmed but quite a bit. 

“Christ, you're stunning in firelight,” John says softly as he walked back into the sitting room.

Delight and pleasure fill Sherlock. John's mere (amazing) presence flooding Sherlock's veins with a contented warmth that's more heat than any fire could ever produce. 

“As are you,” Sherlock says, opening his eyes and letting them run slowly over John from head to toe. So strong, so compact, so deadly, so perfect for him. 

Keeping their eyes on each other, John sits on the couch next to Sherlock's hip. With infinite care, John runs the warm flannel over him. Cleaning the come off of his chest and stomach, carefully manipulating his cock and balls until they too are clean, before moving to his arse. The rough terry of the flannel causes Sherlock wince ever so slightly.

“Sorry.” John drops a soft kiss on the jut of Sherlock's left hipbone as he wipes Sherlock clean. 

“Startled me is all,” Sherlock lies.

John let's him have the lie, but his look clearly tells Sherlock that John knows how tender Sherlock is. 

John, who let's him have lies when he needs them. John who knows him through and through and always has. (Except for one vital part, but he knows it now and there's no hiding it. Not that Sherlock wants to.) John who laughs at crimes scenes and during sex. John who has never thought Sherlock was a fake or a freak. John who has been his friend since the day they met. John who takes care of him, no matter what. Who calls him a dick and calls him love and calls him his best friend. 

Love fills Sherlock at the tender look on John's face, his heart clenching as it spills over with his love for John. 

“What are you thinking?” John asks softly, cupping Sherlock's face in both his hands after dropping the flannel on top of a journal on the coffee table. 

“I love you,” Sherlock says simply. They've not said it aloud to each other before, but there's no doubt in Sherlock's mind about how they feel. Now is time to put voice to sentiment. 

From the shocked joy that suffuses John's face, it is probably passed time to say the words out loud. 

Crowding onto the couch with Sherlock, John kisses Sherlock for a long time, hands gently caressing his face and chest. Eventually, John arranges them so that they are tangled together on the couch with Sherlock more on top of John than the cushions. 

“I love you, too,” John says once they've settled. “So much.”

There's a difference, Sherlock discovers, between knowing and hearing and he vows to himself to try and tell John every day that he loves him. 

They kiss again and again and again. 

Sleep slowly comes over him, the languid weight of exhaustion from fantastic sex, the light contentment of vows exchanged (and they were vows, Sherlock knows, more solemn and binding than any spoken in a church or in a city clerk's office), of the rightness of the decision to buy Baker Street for them. 

Holding John close, Sherlock let's sleep take him knowing that when he wakes, John will still be there.


	14. Trimming Life

John wants to do Christmas right this year.

Not that he's ever really had a 'right' Christmas, but he reckons between the tellie and movies, he's seen enough to what's considered 'right' and wants to give it a go. (Sherlock vehemently objects to having a media decreed 'right' Christmas and says that whatever they come up with be perfect for them and no one else and why would they want to try and fit into anyone else's mould when they're so incredibly unique? John might have snogged him senseless.)

A box from Sherlock's parents arrived in the post that morning containing some obscure paper on the chemical decomposition of natural and synthetic polymers when exposed over extended periods of time in controlled intervals simulating uncontrolled elements to... Something, John stopped listening when Sherlock started waxing poetic about covalent bonding. Though his eyes continued to follow Sherlock as he swanned about the sitting room. (How John made it through medical school when he found chemistry so deadly boring is a mystery. However, he thinks maybe if Sherlock had been around back then, he would have paid far more attention. Though probably not to his lectures.)

Only three of the twelve mince pies remained. (It might take until next Christmas before John can eat another one.)

There were also several ornaments from Sherlock's childhood and two new ones for this year's tree. 

Spurred on by the ornaments, John had dragged Sherlock out of the flat to find a tree to put them on. (A debate ensued over the pros and cons of real versus artificial trees. In which John did all the debating and Sherlock firmly said they were getting a real tree and that they would both hoover to make sure needles weren't tracked all over the flat. After sealing the deal with a kiss, Sherlock had towed John off to a tree lot tucked away in the middle of Paddington Street Gardens.)

Now, their tree is trimmed with new (John had been surprised that he'd picked up nearly two dozen over the last two weeks), old ornaments (Mrs. Hudson had given them a box of windblown glass balls carefully packed in tissue paper for them to borrow), and some of questionable origins (such as ten vials of sealed blood – his and Sherlock's – that are now scattered throughout the tree, with two hanging in a place of honour near the nutcracker which is their tree topper). 

John might wonder where exactly Sherlock got those vials (oddly enough, he can figure out the why) but he actually rather likes having them. The tree is theirs and John isn't going to make Sherlock remove them. If anyone has a problem with them, they can get fucked. 

The fire crackles merrily in the hearth as John hands Sherlock a mug of mulled wine and settles down onto the couch next to him. 

Bows of cedar are swagged over the fireplaces with white lights threaded through them. With all the lights but those on the mantle and the tree turned off, the sitting room feels different; a cosy world of their creation, familiar yet one important step away from their normal hectic lives. 

John can hardly believe that this is now his life. It's one he'd never even dared to dream of and one that he loves fiercely. It's unbelievable to him that after everything that has happened, not only are he and Sherlock alive (again? Still?), but that they have managed to figure out exactly what they want from life and have had the courage to go for it.

To succeed. 

Beside him, Sherlock shifts, sliding down until his head is on John's lap. It might have only been ten days since they first kissed, but John already knows what Sherlock wants. Obligingly, John slowly starts to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair. 

Sherlock closes his eyes and turns into John's touch, humming in pleasure. 

Looking down, John studies Sherlock. He notes the lines and scars, the freckles and mole. He knows them all now, knows how the feel under his lips, knows their taste on his tongue. 

Knows too, that he's never been happier in his life. 

“Thank you,” John says softly, wishing he were better with words so that he could tell Sherlock that he was thanking him for his life, for giving him colours and shadows, laughter and shouting, frustrations and joys.

“Always,” Sherlock answers, opening his gorgeous eyes to return John's studying look. “I love you.”

In the last two days, Sherlock hasn't missed an opportunity to say those words. They are ones John suspects he's never said to anyone, but immediate family. And then, only sparingly. 

Careful not to spill his mulled wine, John bends down to kiss Sherlock softly.

“I love you,” he tells Sherlock. “So bloody much.” A flush suffuses Sherlock's cheeks at John's words that he can only just make out. 

John suspects Sherlock hasn't heard those words from anyone, but family either. 

They stay on the couch for ages enjoying steady glow of the Christmas lights. The muted noises of London are the sound apart from their breathing and the crackling fire and their steady breathing. 

It's lovely and peaceful and John hopes to spend at least three dozen more Christmases just like this.


	15. Holiday Green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally's POV

Sally isn't sure if she should be happy or not that she was surprised coming by this crime scene. On one hand, it proves she's still cares very much about what she does (not just going through the motions), on the other hand, that people can still surprise her with their shit after nearly fifteen years at the Met is a bit worrying.

However, showing up to any crime scene when the victims are a startling shade of green would probably cause anyone to pause.

Except His Nibs. 

Holmes is swanning about the crime scene – without even gloves on, thank you very much – speaking so rapidly that most people can't follow what he's saying. (Most of what he says is utter bollocks. Or, if not bollocks, self-aggrandising shite, that while technically correct, could be delivered much more professionally.) Watson seems to be following whatever Holmes is rambling on about. Either that or he really enjoys watching the great ponce showing off. (Though Watson eyes always track Holmes, he seems to be more intent tonight. Sally wonders what fantastic leaps of logic cause Watson to smile that way.)

She wishes that Holmes would just relay the facts without the grandstanding. 

Trying to rein in the urge to tell him to shut the fuck up and do his job – and job in the loosest sense of the word as it's not like he's paid – without the dramatics, Sally finishes interviewing Lakha Narahari, the main bar tender for the Braxtin-Santos-Farlyn (everyone of them she's spoken to so far are incredible arseholes that make His Nibs see like a reasonable human being) holiday party. 

The woman looks exhausted; then again, it's half two in the morning and her shift started at nineteen hundred the night before. 

“Thank you for your help. Please call me if you think of anything,” Sally says handing Narahari her business card. (Sally hopes that Narahari will call for other reasons.)

“Brilliant!” Watson exclaims from across the room. From the way the Gov is looking at Holmes, Sally figures she needs to get over there or miss out on a vital part of the investigation.

“It was quite simple really,” Holmes says, though his tone isn't nearly as superior as it used to be. 

“Not all of us have obscure chemistry knowledge,” Lestrade says. “You think it could be what killed Davidson?”

“Well,” puts in Watson, “if there was a pre-existing allergy, it would explain why he keeled over dead, but the others just turned green.” 

“Exactly!” Homeless is giving Watson a very warm smile. (It's a true smile, no shamming at being normal. It makes him look young and approachable and is all the more shocking for genuine warmth in it.)

“I'm going to send the body to Barts if you two are done with it,” Lestrade tells them. 

“John and I will be there shortly after,” Holmes says, pulling on leather gloves. “I need to check on something.”

Sally wonders where Holmes is going and if the deliberate vagueness is because he knows the Gov wouldn't approve of whatever he's planning. It's a poorly kept secret that Holmes (and by default, Watson) breaks in anywhere he thinks will help him solve a case and hacks private phones, computers, accounts with impunity. It's poor police work (not actually police work at all, actually) and smacks of the start of being a vigilantly. 

If she ever finds herself standing over a body put their by Holmes, Sally is fairly certain that it'll be because the person did something awful to Watson. Possibility their landlady or the Gov. If the last couple of years have shown her nothing else, it's that Holmes wouldn't kill indiscriminately or because he's bored. 

The fact of which, is only mildly reassuring. 

As she glances up, Sally can see Holmes and Watson standing on the kerb. Holmes' coat billowing in an overly dramatic fashion she is sure he makes happen on purpose. Watson is standing close – closer than most people stand with their lovers, but then that's nothing unusual – grinning up at Holmes. 

A taxi appears as if waiting and both Holmes and Watson laugh as it pulls up. Their joviality grates on her nerves; there's a fucking murder scene not fifteen metres at their back. 

Then everything stops as Holmes boldly tugs Watson to his side, right hand brushing over Watson's arse.

It takes her shocked brain a second to process what she saw. There's been speculation right from the start about whether Holmes and Watson were fucking or not. Sally always felt no as Watson, while mad, still seemed mostly normal. (And anyone with a grain of sense would never get involved with Holmes in that way.)

Then again, Watson has chosen to live with Holmes. Not once, but three times now. (That time after Holmes was shot might not count. Either way, Watson willingly chose to live with Holmes more than once.)

Holmes' hand on Watson's arse. Watson's letting him. 

Sally can't quite wrap her brain around it. It does explain the smiles they've been sharing all morning and the softer edge to Holmes. (He has been easier to take since his return, but tonight there was something more.)

Whatever the change between them must be fairly recent. She doesn't think they were that touchy-feely-smiley the last time she saw them. 

“Donovan?” Lestrade calling her name startles Sally out of her thoughts. “You going to stand staring at the rain all night or do you want to come with me to inspect where the food was cooked?”

“I'm driving” Sally tells him and they stride out into the light rain.

Whatever has changed between Holmes and Watson is in no way her business and if she could scrub the sight of Holmes spindly hand on Watson's (fairly spectacular arse) she would.

Still, it's a bit all right that after everything they've been through (and it's something big, something involving that mad Irish fucker and Watson's ex/gone wife) that they seem happy. It's nice to know that if Holmes can find a partner that anyone has a chance.


	16. Traditional Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's POV

Setting a trend for the rest of his life in not doing what anyone wanted (or planned), Sherlock arrived two weeks late. Mycroft is now fairly certain that Sherlock sensed from in utero that they wanted him to be with them for Christmas and managed to fight biology to ensure he would not be there. 

(Either that, or the hack doctor his parents had gone to vastly miscalculated his mother's due date. Considering that Mycroft had been expecting a sister...)

Because Sherlock was supposed to be there for Christmas, Mycroft had bought his brother (expected sister) a Christmas present with money he'd been saving since August. Even at seven, Mycroft had not enjoyed the regular mass-produced products available.

Instead, he'd commissioned a stuffed toy bee to be made for his sister (brother) that would be uniquely hers (his) form a women he'd found in a small shop in London that has long since closed. (At twenty-two Mycroft had tried to find her again – unsure what to get his fifteen-year-old brother and in near-desperation – only to discover she'd retired the year before and moved to Granada to be with her daughter and her wife.)

The bee was the first present Mycroft had ever bought for anyone and it had been wildly successful. Sherlock had loved that bee and carried it around everywhere until one day at six, he'd decided that he was too old for stuff toys. (The bee is in a box in his parents' attic the attic, along with many other momentous of their childhood that Mummy and Father refused to get rid of.)

For years after that, Mycroft has spent months planning what to get his baby brother.

For Sherlock's fifth Christmas, Mycroft (with Father's help), had got his brother an Irish Setter. School took up much of Mycroft's time and he knew his little brother was lonely. Redbeared had been a constant companion for the next four years. 

At eight, it was apparent that Sherlock had amazing talent and would (if he applied himself) be a world class ballet dancer. To that end, Mycroft ordered a year's supply of dance slipper complete with shoemaker who would come and measure Sherlock's growing feet every six weeks. (No one thought to ask how a fifteen-year-old boy had managed this. It was probably best that no one ever has)

When Sherlock was twelve, catastrophe struck in the form of a bad fall and a broken leg. Mycroft's planned gift of a pair of season tickets so that they could both attend every premier and gala performance of the Royal Ballet hand been thrown out. (Actually, Mycroft had burned each and every one of the vouchers, ignoring the tears that slowly trickled down his cheeks.)

Needing to focus Sherlock's mind away form the drastic change his life was about to take, Mycroft bought him a violin as an alternative present. Making sure to frame the gift as a challenge to his less intelligent brother. (By then, not only did Mycroft speak seven languages fairly fluently, but he played the piano, flute, cello, and guitar. Sherlock only spoke romance languages and Russian and played the piano.)

Three years later, Sherlock acquired new violin for himself and it was the only item he valued. He was still so very angry at the world. 

He refused to even have dance mentioned in his presence. While he was excelling in his courses, he was perpetually in trouble: fighting (beatings really until Mycroft taught Sherlock some vital offensive and defensive moves a friend in the SAS had taught him), being rude to his instructors (more often than not, Sherlock was correct in what he was saying, he just went about it in the most obnoxious manner imaginable), though the most worrisome by far were the drugs.

The tall, thin boy with sharp, haunted eyes and sullen mouth was a stranger to Mycroft. For the first time ever, Mycroft was at a loss what to get Sherlock. In the end, hoping to keep Sherlock's interest in sciences (his healthiest obsession), Mycroft bought him a biography about Nikola Tesla. 

Sherlock's twenty-second Christmas was spent in a medical induced coma at University College Hospital. Mycroft never gave him his gift.

The next year was the same except they were all at Saint Bartholomew Hospital. Mycroft hadn't bothered to get Sherlock anything not sure if he would eve be alive come December 25.

Three years later, his brother was sober, but no longer speaking to him. 

Due mainly to his mother's insistence, Sherlock finally started speaking to Mycroft again right before his twenty-ninth Christmas. However, Mycroft knew that if he were to get a gift it would be throw back in his face. 

The situation never really improved between them. Mycroft dearly loves his brother even if he doesn't understand him and more often than not wants to drown him.

With the renewed contact, Mycroft quietly restarted his traditional Christmas present to Sherlock. 

Without Sherlock ever suspecting, Mycroft orchestrated it so that Sherlock was in need of new lodgings the Christmas of his thirty-third year and that Mrs. Hudson was in need of a tenant. 

Even with all of his planning and machination, Mycroft could never have predicted John Watson or how much the unassuming Army doctor would come to mean to his brother. (All these years later, Mycroft still isn't sure if he had known, if he would have let the meeting happen.) 

Sherlock's thirty-fifth Christmas was once again spent in a hospital and Mycroft without a gift. Mycroft discovered that it didn't matter that Sherlock was there because he'd been stabbed while trying to take down an international crime organisation rather than a drug overdoes, spending hours watching his baby brother breath via the help of machines was horrible. 

The previous Christmas, Mycroft hoped to finally not only win back his brother's affection (or, more realistically, his tolerance), but also put a dangerous assassin behind bars. (Or, again, more realistically, in a windowless room in a facility that doesn't officially exist.) 

Instead, he'd nearly helped bring about his brother's death. (Though, if Sherlock had been capable of adhering to even the simplest of plans, he and John would not have gone through the ensuing mess that followed.)

This year, Mycroft's present will be another one that Sherlock will never know about. This year, he will spend it with their parents and make sure that they stay in New York. (They keep talking about starting a new family tradition of being together at the cottage for Christmas. Mycroft asked if they were all to be drugged again. And if not, perhaps they should be. Mummy had not been amused.)

The change of the status of Sherlock and John's relationship is both wonderful and terrifying to Mycroft. He hopes, sincerely, that they are happy together because he knows that were anything to happen to John, it would end his brother. 

To that end, not only is Mycroft ensuring that they have a parents-free Christmas, but he has upped the security detail on them to level seven. Fortunately, Sherlock is currently incredibly distracted by John. This will theoretically give the security enough time to settle in without Sherlock noticing them immediately and calling them out.

When Sherlock does call (Mycroft gives it until January eighth – enough time for the immediate novelty to wear off on his new sexual relationship and all holiday and birthday celebrations to be done with – before Sherlock notices the new detail), Mycroft will point out that the protection is as much for John as Sherlock and it will mostly be surveillance when they leave the flat. 

Since breaking his leg at twelve, keeping John alive is the only thing that Sherlock has ever asked of him, and Mycroft will use the full force of his not inconsiderable influence to make sure that John comes to no harm and, by default, that his brother remains (relatively) happy and safe. 

Since the first time he saw Sherlock (not a sister), Mycroft has fiercely loved his brother and while he hasn't understood Sherlock for years, that love holds true. 

The tradition he started when he was seven of getting Sherlock a present without any help has held true for nearly four decades (less the gap of eleven years), but Mycroft hopes that it can start up again. 

Mycroft sees the echo of the boy he knew in the man that his brother has become. That stubborn, curious, adoring child who used to follow Mycroft around everywhere talking a mile a minute and laughing freely is now a man who for the first time in his adult life smiles and means it. (Most of those smiles are directed at John, but Mycroft doesn't care. Sherlock can hate him until he draws his last breath, what matters is that he is finally happy and settled. Mycroft doesn't foresee any more danger nights.)

Maybe next year he will have a brother-in-law to buy a gift for. A new tradition.


	17. Never Without You

This will be the sixth Christmas that they have known each other, Sherlock thinks trying to burrow deeper into John's chair, but only the third that they've spent together. And if Sherlock is being honest with himself (which he tries to do always these days. Especially, when John is concerned), the first two don't really count. (What with him misidentifying The Woman's body for their first Christmas and the whole debacle with Magnussen for the last.)

Sherlock had been so hopeful for his that Christmas after his return. All the plans he'd made that cold, lonely Christmas in Montreal swirling around his brain trying to slot into reality, but it was not to be. 

Though Mary had invited (rather insistently) that Sherlock spend the holiday with them at their flat (looking back, Sherlock can see clearly how often she made a point to making certain that Sherlock understood that she and John were a unit in everything), but Sherlock had declined. With John still so angry at him (Sherlock was forgiven, but his gross misdeed had not be forgotten) and Sherlock reeling from the realisation that he would never have his life back, it was better for everyone that he'd been alone. 

For better or worse, Sherlock had made poutine; trying out various recipes until he'd found one that matched his memory. (That it also happened to be vegetarian was just a coincidence.) 

He'd written an email over seven thousand words long, detailing his time away. Not the boring stakeouts or the heart-pounding (yet still boring) fights/chases/stand-offs, nor the intricate manoeuvrings of various operations, or his brilliant deductions, but the thing places he thought John would like, he foods he thought John would have loved or hated, the odd assortment of people that reminded him of John (the kind doctor with the wicked punch in Auckland, the police sargent in Iquitos who enjoyed watching Sherlock work, the old man in Tinjri with John's wicked sense of humour, the young girl in Żory with eyes so dark blue as to look black is some light, and dozens more), the mad adventures that were lacking in fun without John by his sidee. 

Before he could hit send, a text from Mary had arrived wishing him Happy Christmas signed from both of them.

Sherlock had deleted the email and grimly ate all of the poutine trying not to think at all. (Trying not to reach for the seven percent solution that would stop his thoughts.) 

There are no words in any language to describe the dark longing he felt for John that Christmas. The aching knowledge that while John was just miles away physically, they were the furthest away they'd ever been since first meeting. 

Though that was two years ago, the fierce echo of that loneliness swamps Sherlock. Digging out his mobile, he texts John asking for cheese. 

Within seconds there's an answer.

'Approx 4 million types of cheeses here. Be more specific.' 

There won't be anything even resembling the cheese curds from Quebec. However, John went to the Waitrose rather than the Tesco Express, so the cheese options will be acceptable. A cheese plate with fresh bread will be an acceptable alternative. Maybe he'll cut up the cucumber and tomato that are I the crisper. 

'Mozzarella, brie, halloumi, cheddar, chilli goat cheese'

'Someone's hungry'

'Thinking about cheese.'

'These best not be for experiments'

'Get some some fresh bread from Le Pain Quotidien.'

'Anything else?!?!?'

'Lube.'

'Wanker.'

'Quite the opposite in fact.'

There's no following answer from John, but Sherlock imagines him grinning to himself in front of the cheese selection. 

Getting up from the John's chair, Sherlock curls up on the couch facing the door as he doesn't want John to find him in his chair. Curling up in John's chair was a habit Sherlock started when he was living alone in 221B; a way to feel closer to John. (The real reason he moved John's chair was because he'd spend hours in it daydreaming of the life he'd created for himself – for them – while away and it was just too painful when Sherlock came back to reality.)

Now, Sherlock finds comfort in the uncomfortable chair. It smell faintly of John, the cushions forming valleys and hills of John's ghost. (Still, it wouldn't do for John to find him there.)

Closing his eyes, Sherlock waits for John to get home.

It might be twenty minutes or four hours (Sherlock doesn't bother to check) when John finally returns. The familiar tread on the steps as John makes his way up to their flat is one of the most comforting things Sherlock has ever heard. 

Still, he keeps his eyes closed, listening as John juggles the shopping and strips off his gloves, shoving them into the pockets of his hated coat (Sherlock makes a mental note to collect the new one from the tailor's), then toes off his shoes. 

Next comes the sounds of John rustling around in the kitchen putting the food away. 

Sherlock drifts, listening to the familiarity of it all, not wanting to open his eyes. The fear is still strong that when he does open them, that everything will all be a mirage made up by his lonely mind. That John will not be back in Baker Street, that they most certainly will not be together. That Sherlock will in fact be alone in the nearly suffocating familiarity of their (his?) sitting room.

At his hip, the cushions dip, John's strong hand (very much real, very much there) curls around Sherlock's upper arm. Warm lips kiss his forehead, his left cheek, his mouth.

“You okay?” John asks softly, slowly pushing and sliding until he's lying down on the couch (mostly on top of Sherlock, and oh, isn't that wonderfully grounding), his hand stroking slowly through Sherlock's hair. 

“I don't want to spend Christmas without you,” Sherlock tells him without thinking.

“You won't.” John's hands continue threading through Sherlock's hair, soothing, anchoring. 

“Not ever.” It takes a couple of moments for Sherlock's to realise that he's said the last aloud and that it was more of a questioning plea than statement. 

John's hand has left his hair and his now cupping Sherlock's face, thumb caressing his cheek. Opening his eyes, Sherlock sees John's are swimming with tears he'll not shed and a wealth of pain and hope and promises.

“Not ever,” John vows solemnly. 

Sherlock thinks of Montreal and the plans he made for 'next' Christmas. He thinks of Rio and the plans for John's birthday. Of Sagay and holiday plans. Of Seattle and plans for rainy walks. Of London and Baker Street and plans to give John (and himself) a home forever. 

“Not ever,” Sherlock repeats, this time it's a vow just like John's. 

Stretching up, Sherlock captures John's mouth with his own, humming in happiness when he finds John's lips parted, his tongue eager to slide inside Sherlock's mouth. This is so much better than any of the dreams Sherlock came up while away, alone (lonely). He never would have been able to imagine the feel of John's tongue on the roof of his mouth, the strong, steady way his chest rises and falls against Sherlock's own, the soft sounds of pleasure John makes, the way his hands grasp and explore, the lovely weight of John on top of him.

No, reality is so much better and John has just promised that Sherlock will never again know a Christmas (an anything) without him. 

Settling down for a long snog (with the hope of more), Sherlock sighs in contentment. 

This is the forever he didn't know could exist. The possibility of promise that seemed beyond anything imaginable.


	18. Hanging Mistletoe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Missed a day, but worked out for the best as it means I got to see a picture that cupidford posted on tumblr of mistletoe mysteriously getting hung from the hand rails of various tubes and I reworked the whole idea for this chapter.

Even if they could have got a cab at half six on a Friday night, in the snarl of rush hour traffic it would take about an hour to get home. Not that the tube at rush hour is preferable to either of them, but at least they'll be getting home sooner. 

“What a waste of time. That man was an idiot,” Sherlock complains as the push their way onto the platform.

“He's the top in his field,” John says, checking to see when the next train is due; Hammersmith and City due in two minutes. That'll get them home in twenty minutes. Perfect. 

“His field is populated by idiots,” Sherlock grumbles.

“You might not be wrong about that,” John acknowledges. The man had been a prick; filled with outdated ideas and frankly ridiculous theories. 

The platform is crowded and John fervently hopes that most of these people are waiting for the Circle line. They stand next to each other, hands brushing; it's a casual touch that even a month ago they would have shied away from. Now, the only thing keeping John from taking Sherlock's hand in his is the worry that Sherlock might pull away from a more overt display of affection (belonging). Sherlock has never been one for easy touches. (Though that seems to be changing. At least, he's been touching John far more easily lately.)

“He said what he did about soldiers because he's read the blog and knows you were in the Army and thinks that his studying of medieval weapons and tactics means he understands war better than you do.”

“That,” John says as the train pulls up, “and he's a colossal self-important dick who likes to hear himself speak but doesn't have a lovely voice that makes others want to listen.” The last is said with a smile and a sideways look at Sherlock. 

“I have a lovely voice?” Sherlock asks as they crowd into the car.

“You do.” More than once, John has had to disabuse his cock out of its interest when Sherlock's has been on a rant. “It's one of the things that first attracted me to you.”

“And here I thought it was because I gave such good head.”

John eyes the other commuters, but like all good Londoners, they're studiously ignoring each other, waiting impatiently for the chance to cram onto their chosen car. 

“I was your friend for years before I discovered that forming words was not the most amazing thing your mouth could do.” John can't help the smile that splits his face. “So, it was your voice and the way you use words that pulled me in.”

When they board, they get pushed towards the opposite door, which is just fine with John. He and Sherlock stake their claim in the void where luggage is supposed to go. John's back braced against the glass partition that keeps those seated safe from the doors and rogue luggage. 

As Sherlock is a tall bastard, he can easily reach up to hold the rail the whole trip while John has to make do with the poll if he needs to steady himself. (Not that Sherlock ever does reach up, as to do so would mean he doesn't know exactly when the turns and jostles happen.) With all the people pushing against them, John knows that Sherlock will end up bumping into them when he misjudges and get glares at. 

Looking pointedly at Sherlock then up, John is about to tell Sherlock to hold onto the bloody rail when he realises that there's a stick hanging from it. No, not a stick, a sprig of mistletoe tied on with a red ribbon. 

John isn't sure what to make of that; on one hand, it's funny as fuck, on the other hand, he really doesn't want to see anyone snogging on his ride. (It also gives him all sorts of ideas. Ideas he should not be having on a tube filled with other commuters.)

Out of the corner of his eye, John can see Sherlock following his gaze; a small smile turns up the corner of Sherlock's lips. 

It startles John slightly as he was certain that Sherlock would have been disdainful of the home-made (guerilla?) decorations. 

“I have ideas,” Sherlock says, as if reading John's earlier thoughts.

“As do I.” Ideas that are most definitely not okay to have on a crowded tube.

“My ideas are possible.”

“As are mine.”

“My ideas are possible here and now.”

“Really?” John edges closer. “Without us getting an ASBO?”

“Well, two of them are possible.”

John snorts with laughter as they pull into Farringdon. People get off, more crowd on and Sherlock shifts closer. Between the crowded car and the jerk and sway as the tube starts up again, John is pressed tightly against Sherlock. 

The train jostles and rumbles along the track, with some people pointing out the mistletoe just passed Sherlock's right shoulder as it sways in time with the tube. A young couple worm their way through the other passangers until they can kiss under the mistletoe for a long couple of seconds. (Someone whistles.)

It's not that John wants to snog Sherlock in an overly hot, crowded tube car lumbering along the Hammersmith and City line. (Well, he does. John always wants to kiss Sherlock, it's kind of a default state of his. Though the urge has become significantly stronger since they've been kissing in real life rather than his imagination.) It's that if he starts, John isn't sure he'll be able to stop.

Pressing in closer, John lets his body move against Sherlock's, the natural swaying of the train rubbing their hips and torsos together in the most enticing way. 

“I want you,” Sherlock says, his voice a low rumble mixing with that of the train. He drops his head so that his lips brush John's left ear. “I always want you.”

John is starting to feel just how much Sherlock wants him. Slipping his left leg between both of Sherlock's, John presses his belly against the growing length of Sherlock's cock. The soft gasp Sherlock lets out is barely covered by the sound of the train. 

“I've wanted you for years,” John says, pressing his lips against Sherlock's collarbone. There's fabric in the way (one of his overly tight bespoke shirts) but John doesn't care. At the same time, John's hands slide under the folds of Sherlock's bloody ridiculous coat (he has three other identical ones that John knows about hanging up in his wardrobe, just in case. Poncy git. John knows now how much they cost and hasn't asked if Sherlock actually paid six grand – assuming four coats – or if he acquired them another way) to rest on the jut of his hips, angling Sherlock's body more firmly against his own.

The distance between is gone and they are slowly rubbing their bodies together I time with the swaying of the tube. John thinks that Sherlock's coat (he's never going to mock it again. Well, not much at any rate.) hides most of what's happening. 

Unexpectedly, their car lists to the left (John has been too distracted to pay attention to where they are) and Sherlock pushes hard against John's growing erection. Pleasure and pain shoot through John and his hands grip tightly on Sherlock's hips. 

“Sorry,” Sherlock mumbles, repositioning himself to ease the pressure slightly.

“No real harm done.” To prove it, John thrusts his hips against Sherlock pressing his erection into Sherlock, making sure that his stomach rubs firmly along Sherlock's hard cock. 

“John,” Sherlock moans softly, his hands resting just above John's arse.

“No ASBOs,” John warns even as he rises on his toes to nip at the pulse throbbing in Sherlock's neck before soothing the small hurt. Under his tongue, John relishes the feel of how fast Sherlock's heart is racing. He knows, were he able, that if he wrapped his hand around Sherlock's cock, he would feel it pulse in time with Sherlock's heart beat. 

“You're making it hard—”

Laughter whooshes out of John. “I'm not the only one making things hard,” John says, snickering like a school boy.

“What I meant to say is that it's difficult to remember make sure we don't get in trouble when you're pressed against me like this.”

“Do you want me to step back?” John asks.

“No!” Sherlock's hands tighten convulsively on John, fisting the hem of his coat. 

Sherlock looks around the car as if any other bored commuter, but John can feel Sherlock's erection pressing into his stomach and knows the truth. Loves that he's the only one to ever know Sherlock like this. Know him at his most human, most vulnerable. 

“Good.” John licks the small red mark he made not moments ago.

At Euston Square there's more off and on, and on. There really isn't any space between them, so when they're get jostled by the loading crowd, the only thing that happens is that their bodies rub together wickedly.

Though he doesn't make a sound, nor does the coolly disdainful look slip from his face, John can feel the slight tremors of arousal running through Sherlock's body.

They leave Euston Station and John slides his hands down to cup Sherlock's arse.

“Thought you said no touching that would get you an ASBO.” That Sherlock doesn't give a fuck if he gets one or not goes without saying.

“No one can see what my hands are doing.” To prove his point, John slowly and deliberately slides his hands down to where Sherlock's lush arse meets his thighs and back up. “Your impractical coat finally serves a purpose.” 

“This coat is—”

Very slowly, John runs his thumbs down the crack of Sherlock's arse. His trousers don't have a lot of give (fucking bespoke, again), but the material is thin (if strong) and it moulds to his body, so that John doesn't need to press that hard to find Sherlock's hole. 

Sherlock jerks, hips swaying forwards and back, his body unsure which direction to go to get the most pleasure. 

As the tube pulls into Great Portland Street Station, John wonders just how the fuck they're going to walk home. Both of them now have raging erections and John's level of caring about getting a third ASBO is rapidly diminishing. (It's not as if the other two stuck. Between Sherlock and Mycroft, his record is clean.)

People get off and on, though not nearly in as great as numbers as the other stations. 

A group of people in their late twenties pushes their way next to them. They've obviously had some holiday cheer at work as their cheeks are flushed and their laughter is slightly too loud and boisterous. 

One of them (Doctor Aeishah Villenueve, if her swipe card from Portland Hospital is telling the truth), spots the mistletoe. More laughter, more jostling. Several of them kiss beneath it with the rest of them daring their fellows for longer and longer times. 

As one couple shifts away and another under, they bump into Sherlock who uses the motion to thrust hard against John, his hands sliding down to cup John's arse. 

Even through the thick denim, John can feel the curve of every fingertip, the flex of every joint. The soft groan of frustrated want that John lets out is lost under the cheers of the crowd. 

Deciding that the group behind them will be distraction enough for the rest of the occupants of the car, John surges up and captures Sherlock's mouth with his. Unprepared for John's move, Sherlock gasps in surprise, his lips parting enough for John to slip his tongue inside Sherlock's mouth. 

John doesn't object when Sherlock's hands slide down to fully cup his arse and hold him in place. The rocking of the train is once again in their favour and the sway together, mouths feasting, bodies thrusting. 

It feels as if it's been days, not hours since John last had the taste of Sherlock filling his sense, the feel of that long, lean, wonderful body pressed against his own, the taunting joy of his cock rubbing against Sherlock. 

The barriers between them are abhorred to John, but he still has enough sanity to not strip Sherlock naked in a crowed tube car. (Barely.)

“Oy, give over,” someone says, voice a harsh intrusion into the bubble of John's desires. 

“You're only supposed to give a little peck, not scare the kiddies,” jokes a woman. 

“Fuck,” mutters Sherlock, pulling back and glaring at the group behind him.

“As soon as we get home,” John promises. He has no idea where they are and vehemently hopes that they haven't missed their stop; it's only a short ride to Baker Street from Great Portland Street and he'd been too caught up in the taste and feel of Sherlock to notice if they'd fucking stopped.

“Did we miss it?” Sherlock asks, sounding more than a little frazzled. His lips are rosy and swollen, his eyes slightly glassy, and there's a red flush coming up from under his shirt and painting his sharp cheekbones.

“Hope not.” John won't make it if they have. Not crossing over to catch another tube in the opposite direction, going back to Baker Street Station, and then the walk home. 

As if I answer to his thoughts, the tannoy announces Baker Street.

“Thank god,” Sherlock mutters, easing his hands off of John's arse. 

“No shit,” John agrees. 

They push their way through the crowd even before they pull into the station.

“Have a lovely evening,” sings a voice from behind them.

John wants to tell them to fuck off or maybe assure them they will, but the doors open and getting home is a much greater priority.

Instinctively, he takes Sherlock's hand and they weave their way through the slow moving crowd; the need to get back to their flat pounding in him. (Them.)

Soon. Soon. 

“You realise you're saying that out loud?” Sherlock teases, as small smile playing around his reddened lips. 

“Soon,” John promises, squeezing Sherlock's hand. “Soon as we're through the door to our flat, I'm having you. Hard and fast and probably won't even have time to take all of your clothes off before I'm in you.”

Sherlock stumbles and it's a good thing John has his hand. 

“Yes. That.” Sherlock says fervently, cheeks flushing hot, voice as rough as gravel and molten hot. 

They move all the faster through bunches of rush hour commuters, lust singing in their veins, need pushing them forward, the promise of soon echoing between them.


	19. Life's Score

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad things happened in life today, this chapter is slightly angstier than I originally plotted out. Still hopeful because I'm a (doomed) optimist.

The music flows from him easily. It's been in him for years now, growing, changing, but always playing. It's a song that started on the twenty-ninth of January and has been playing in his head (and through his violin) for five years now. (Nearly six.)

There's the lighter, questioning notes of interest, of investigation, of engagement. The beginning, meeting John in the swirling mix of intrigue and the need to know what made the quietly angry army doctor with limp arrange to meet a virtual stranger to see a flat (a flat in disarray yet still decided to move into the mess) and then agree to go to a crime scene, to help track down a serial killer. (Even after being warned by a police office, John had stayed, phased.) 

There's the sharper notes of surprise and discovery and the need to find out why the unassuming man could make such an incredible shot that saved Sherlock's life.

There's the faster notes of running through London chasing down criminals, the slower notes of quiet breakfasts and hours in the flat together without the need to speak. There's growing notes, layering over each other as Sherlock's life becomes more and more entwined with John's.

There's the discorded shock of betrayal quickly overlaid by the deepest fear Sherlock had ever experienced (until that point). The breath of stunned silence for the knowing that John would have died for him, with him. 

There's the sound of a first Christmas and the first experience of wanting to spend it with someone, of needing them there and them not knowing how important it is for them to stay. Of not being able to make them stay because it's a family holiday and eve if he doesn't like his sister overly much, John feels obligated to spend Christmas with her. 

There's the mixed notes as Sherlock's untangles his feelings and tried desperately to hide them from John. The confusing mix 'I'm not gay' 'well, I am and look at us' and never discussing what that means exactly. (Never acknowledging that Sherlock had overheard that whole exchange.)

There's the jittery and loud and confusing mix of fast and slow, loud and soft, of learning that John is more than his friend, but that is all he's allowed to call him. (All Sherlock really has the courage to express when there was so much more just under the surface of that one word, the handful of notes.)

There's the long slow, sad, deep music of acknowledgement that he will have to leave. To leave London, to leave John. That he might never come back. That John will be safe, but in all likelihood, Sherlock will never see him again and that John – lovely, loyal, broken, interesting, funny, angry, amazing John – will think Sherlock is a fake. Will never know that the hardest thing Sherlock did was send him from Bart's.

There's the mournful, drawn-out stanzas of Sherlock's heart breaking as he breaks John, makes him watch, hears the 'he's my friend' looping over and over and over and over.

There's months, years, in one page of longing, of loneliness the likes of which he'd never known existed. There's the jolt of pain expressed in staccato notes, when he comes home to find John has gone on with his life, that there's no place for Sherlock's. 

There's another Christmas alone, another one when they're close, yet so far apart. A wedding and a dance that hurts nearly too much to play. The worst Christmas yet, one together, but not. John by his side, but forced away at the end. 

There's yet another goodbye and this time with the full knowledge of all that he's lost. (His life being the least of it.)

There's the tentative notes of hope, of repairing, of dreams partially coming true. Of John back in Baker Street, of John back on cases, of John reading the paper or bad novels or picking away at his laptop as Sherlock putters around the flat. There's the exciting, fast building as they run around London, rediscovering it and each other. 

There's the sweet notes of a first kiss, of the certainty that their's will (probably) not be a tragedy, but an enduring, epic story that lasts through the ages. 

There's a new Christmas joyful and solid, filled with high and low notes, fast and slow, all tangled together, but instead of sounding like a disordered mess, it sounds like something a whole orchestra should be playing, yet is all the more powerful for being done on a lone violin.

There's the silence of waiting, hopeful and interesting. 

There's more to come, more that hasn't been written yet, but the music is waiting in him to come out and Sherlock knows that it'll always be there, part of him. Much as John is. 

Arms aching, fingers numb, Sherlock lowers his violin. There's not need to write the new part of the score, he knows it just as he knows the freckles on John's body or the layout of 221B.. Part of him, always. 

“That was beautiful,” John says from behind him, startling Sherlock. It's rare for anyone to sneak up on him. Though, admittedly, he'd been lost in his music and he is always more susceptible to the precived safety of their flat. 

Something is wrong with John's voice; it almost sounds as if he's getting a cold. 

Carefully, Sherlock places his violin back in its case, making a production of putting it away. John was never meant to hear that, no one was. It's unpolished and deeply personal and reveals too much even if the listener has no idea what was being played. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, a bit stiffly, closing the latches on his violin's case .

“What was that?” John sniffs a bit and Sherlock wonders what cold remedies they have on hand because going to the shops the Saturday before Christmas will be a nightmare. (He'll do it because a sick John over Christmas will be worse.)

“A Christmas Carol,” Sherlock jokes, finally turning to face John.

Tears glisten on his cheeks and Sherlock's heart stutters in his chest. His mind whirls as to what would cause John to cry; the list is remarkably short and incredibly distressing. 

“Oh, no, Sherlock,” John says, crossing to him, cupping Sherlock's face in his hands. “Nothing's wrong.”

“You're crying.” Sherlock hates stating the obvious, but sometimes the obvious needs stating.

“Everyone is fine.” John rises up and kisses Sherlock's lips softly. “Everything is fine.”

“But, you're crying.” Sherlock can taste the salt of John's tears as he speaks. 

“What you were playing was beautiful and sad and happy and amazing.” Slowly John rubs his thumbs over Sherlock's cheeks. “And you're crying too, love.”

Shocked, Sherlock brings his hands to his cheeks, startled to find that they're wet. 

“I hadn't realised.”

“What were you playing?”

“It doesn't have a name.” John.

“Who wrote it?”

“I did.”

From the look on John's face – wonder and acceptance – Sherlock thinks John might have already suspected the answer.

“When?”

“It started about six years ago and has been expanded upon ever since.”

“January twenty-ninth?” John asks, softly, eyes soft, face filled with wonder and love.

“Yes.” Sherlock is embarrassed. Embarrassed to be caught, embarrassed that John heard so many of his unfiltered feelings, embarrassed to have been caught crying. Then again, John's face has tears on it too, so that's maybe alright. 

“Our meeting inspired that?”

“You inspired that.”

“Fuck,” John mutters, swallowing convulsively. 

Sherlock stands frozen, John's hands on his face, his hands overlaying John's, his stomach roiling with a million different emotions. 

There's so much between them and it's hard to feel, hard to see. Bending down, Sherlock kisses John trying to settle, trying to express everything six years have bundled up inside him. 

It's long and thorough, mouths opening, tongues slowly caressing, arms gently coming around each other until they're standing in the middle of the sitting room kissing five (nearly six) year's worth of feelings and missed chances, of maybes and fears, of promises and betrayals, and finally of hope and certainty and love. 

So much love.

The kiss ends naturally, and Sherlock drops his forehead to John's. They stand there, breathing in each other's breaths.

“I inspired that?” John asks, voice rough, fingers running soothingly through Sherlock's hair.

“That and so much more.”

“Christ, I love you.” John's mouth covers his again, tongue seeking, hand tightening in Sherlock's hair. (As if Sherlock's would ever pull back now.) “You are amazing,” John breathes against his lips. 

Sherlock takes the words, absorbing them, they change from letters to notes, and this moment incorporates itself into the music that is always playing in the background of their life together.


	20. Unwrapped Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I thought I’d posted this last night, turns out I fell asleep without hitting ‘Post.’

Though he thinks he might burst, John hasn't been this content in his life.

 

Mrs. Hudson had outdone herself with the Christmas dinner (five days early) from the turkey to mashed parsnips and carrots to the Christmas pudding, everything made in her own kitchen. There would be food for both he and Sherlock for days.

 

Bellies full, they sit sipping mulled wine (the only thing that he and Sherlock had been allowed to bring) and just enjoying each other's company.

 

“That's when your sister realised that she hadn't turned on the oven,” Sherlock says.

 

“How did you know?” Mrs. Hudson asks in delighted wonder.

 

“It's hardly the first time your sister has forgotten to turn on the oven.” Sherlock takes a sip of his mulled wine. “It's why you go to her horrid house every year and also why you end up taking over cooking duties from her.”

 

“That,” Mrs. Hudson finished off her mulled wine, “and it means I don't have to do the washing up.”

 

“Well, you're not going to do it tonight either,” John states, rousing himself from a half-doze.

 

“You boys don't—”

 

“We most certainly do,” John insists.

 

“I don't,” injects Sherlock.

 

“Yes, you do.” Giving Sherlock a long look, John waits until Sherlock capitulate (with a very loud sigh and dramatically collapsing back against the couch then slouching against John) before turning back to Mrs. Hudson. “You cooked us a feast that we'll be enjoying for days, the least Sherlock and I can do is the washing up.”

 

“Thank you,” she says with an indulgent smile. “On top of everything you've both given me for Christmas, it's a bit overwhelming.”

 

“It was nothing,” John says.

 

“Don't be ridiculous,” Sherlock objects, “we gave her expensive and ongoing gifts that were aggravating to arrange.”

 

“Sherlock!” John jabs Sherlock with his elbow.

 

“What?” Eyes wide and questioning.

 

The innocence if feigned; John can spot the difference after so many years.

 

“It's fine, John,” Mrs. Hudson says, left hand gently fingering the scarf that they'd bought her at the Christmas Market. “Sherlock is right. That trip really wasn't necessary.”

 

“It's paid for and in your name, as it's non-refundable, you have to go,” Sherlock tells her. “I hear the Turks and Caicos are very pleasant = this time of year.”

 

“It does sound lovely,” Mrs. Hudson says wistfulness underlacing her every word. “And I won't be sad to miss all the mess and noise from the construction.”

 

The renovations are going to be a pain in the arse, but it will be nice to not run out of hot water. And, without Mrs. Hudson around to fuss, John only needs to worry about wrangling Sherlock when the construction crew starts up on January seventh. Maybe if he hides the journal on exotic drugs and poisons by an early Victorian detective that Mrs. Hudson gave Sherlock for Christmas until the crew shows up, it'll keep Sherlock's attention long enough to get the job started.

 

(John has no hope at all of Sherlock not pissing off most of the crew. If John is supremely lucky, Sherlock won't do insult them all to the point where they'll end up needing to find a whole new crew.)

 

“Give us a song, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson requests, pulling John out of his plans.

 

Without any prevarication , Sherlock dumps the book and the blanket (where Mrs. Hudson found a blanket with genetically correct DNA pattern spooling over it, John can't imagine) on John's lap and grabs his violin case.

 

Not allowing for any requests, Sherlock starts to tunes it quickly then starts to play 'Oh! Come All Ye Faithful'.

 

In all the years, John has know Sherlock, he's never truly let himself watch Sherlock play; he worried that too much would show on his face. (That Sherlock would deduce John's feelings and that would be the end of their relationship. John muses at how wrong he's been.)

 

Now, John watches intently (making up for lost time) as Sherlock's body sways to the music he's making. The soft smile on Sherlock's lips as he easily transitions into 'Silent Night' (a song John know Sherlock hates, but that Mrs. Hudson loves) makes John want to set aside his own presents (a lovely cashmere sweater in a colour that hovers between grey and blue and a pair of gloves with fingers that will work on touch screens) and take Sherlock in his arms and hold him closer. To taste that smile, feel it under his own lips, even as Sherlock plays on. (A physically impossible dream, but a cherished one nonetheless.) 

 

Two songs later, and John can see Mrs. Hudson is more asleep than awake in her chair. Catching Sherlock's eye, he casts his eyes towards Mrs. Hudson. With as slight nod, Sherlock finishes his piece then untucks his violin from under his chin.

 

“Oh.” Mrs. Hudson sits up a bit straighter. “Started to drift off, but that was wonderful, Sherlock.”

 

“Mrs. Hudson,” John says, getting to his feet. “Why don't we get the washing up done and you head on off to bed?”

 

“I think I will, thank you, dear.”

 

John helps her to her feet accepting the kiss on the cheek she gives him (trying not to melt too much when Sherlock stoops to do the same).

 

“Sleep well,” Sherlock says.

 

“I think I will. That's another year almost all wrapped up. Where does the time go?”

 

With an absent-minded little wave of her hand, she makes her way towards her room.

 

“Not you,” John says, snagging the back of Sherlock's jacket. “We have dishes to do.”

 

“I don't see why I have to do them, you were the one who volunteered your services.”

 

“Because it's the polite thing to do.” Holding up his hand, John glared. “And I know you don't give a toss about being polite, but it's a dick move to not at least offer after she went to all that trouble.”

 

“Whatever.”

 

“I'll be very grateful to you,” John promises in a low voice as he starts to run the water. Beside him, Sherlock freezes.

 

“How grateful?”

 

“You'll have to wait and see.”

 

With an attention to washing up John has only ever seen Sherlock give to the clean up of dangerous substances (and sometimes not then), John grins to himself and places a pot on the drying rack.


	21. Chapter 21

Not a chapter, sorry. Just wanted everyone to know that I haven't forgotten about this. 

I was sick over the holidays (which were ridiculously busy), then I left my netbook on my final flight home. Alaska was basically, sad for you, you should probably get a new one. I waited a week and have heard nothing from them. :(

More, I hadn't backed up my net book in months. (Like seven.)

BACK UP KIDS.

Not only have I lost months of photos, including going to see 'Hamlet' and a whole trip to London and Venice with a very dear friend, but I've lost seven months' worth of writing. 

It sucks beyond the telling. 

Luckily, (unlike my other wip, which was fully written and just needed to be sent to my beta, like in July) this one is fresh in my mind AND I have some hand written notes. I just needed time to grieve over the lose of everything. 

At any rate, I appolgise for the delay and I hope to get back to writing the last couple of chapters tomorrow. 

BACK UP EVERYTHING ALWAYS!


End file.
